rent
by appleschan
Summary: rukia rents with ichigo. i/r.
1. days take forever

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Warning: ooc.

*_it's a distract-ception fic. was writing bs17 then got distracted, shifted to ent3, got distracted, so shifted to nas12, then got distracted again -to this. i think my brain wants to write rukia._

**rent**

i. days take forever

_appleschan_

* * *

Rukia can dispel rumors if she wants-

One rumor says that the brooding, hot (they say) guy at the far corner of the audi comes from a German-Japanese power family and his father is from the Nobunaga line which is pretty impressive if he actually cares.

-but she doesn't because-

"It's really awesome, he should be in a museum or something. He's like a walking piece of history. Awesome."

-it's a part of her daily entertainment.

Rukia doesn't _really_ care about his lineage, point in fact, she would rather tap her pen against her desk humming a Keiko Abe piece while waiting for the professor than _really_ listen to pointless college gossips.

But the girl who's currently her seatmate for History does. She cares a lot, too, about his hair. "Ooh, that's done by a New York-based hair colorist, you know, so it's kind of _sooo_ natural-looking"

_Wrong_, Rukia thinks, that's natural.

But gossips like this fill the gap, the dead silence around her in-between classes while waiting for their professor. And she thinks, she _can_ put up with it because it might be a bit of fun –sort of- to hear the guy being made into some sort of impossibly charming _real_ hero.

"Nobody really knows a lot about him, it's kind of hot, I mean it's kind of hot, hot guy with the hot and mysterious background," her seatmate winks at her.

Rukia shrugs. _No_.

"Oh and he reads books once. Only once. Then he remembers everything."

The boy her seat mate and the rest of the university girls admire continues to sit at the far corner of the audi silently; his hood drawn to cover his hair, his gaze –maybe, because she can't really see- set straight ahead.

The problem with being famous is that there are so many, many, many verbose and bombastic rumors.

"Oh some international actors actually asked for his diet and skin care, you know,"

_Oh_, Rukia thinks, her seatmate really won't stop. Rukia shifts slightly and takes her book out.

"-and um, producers like, they like, wanna get him into the industry. Something sexy. No, not porn. Absolutely no porn. Because, uhh, you know, the vast family background-"

"I'm sorry, the Nobunaga line?" Rukia asks, opening her book on the page about their current lesson without looking. She knows, oh she knows, because she studies hard.

"Nobunaga," her seat mate confirms, "sucks, right? I know-! Oh yeah! He plays football as brilliantly as Honda Keisuke does! I think he's invited to play for the national team, but he kind of refused them because...oh well, super tight schedule. And I don't know, there's this tradition in his family…so yeah."

For Rukia, the story goes like this, everyone in campus knows, follows and admires Kurosaki Ichigo. He majors in –seriously- she doesn't know. She thinks he has this entire collection of black outfits and poetry books. He doesn't talk much, but he glares a lot. She thinks that's enough human interaction for him. He goes home at approximately 9 pm. He buys take out reheated food for dinner even if he can afford to dine in a Michelin-starred restaurant every night. He eats it while waiting for the last scheduled bus towards his house. There's an emphasis on _house_. Nobody ever said he's pleasant or kind or approachable or nice.

For everyone else, Kurosaki Ichigo is this some sort of all-rounder hero; bombastic and indestructible.

* * *

to be continued


	2. the day sky is full of startling stars

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Warning: ooc.

**rent**

**ii. the day time sky is full of startling stars**

_appleschan_

* * *

10 minutes after 9 pm at the bus stop, the guy who sits at the far corner of the audi sits in front of the desolate convenience store holding a cold sandwich and a Fanta on another hand.

He's leaning forward, elbows on his knees, one hand clutching the cold sandwich that he bites into every 1 minute. He has his hood still drawn up and his black backpack on the side.

10 minutes after 9 pm at the same bus stop, Rukia just finished her cold salad –also bought from the convenience store.

They sit awkwardly 2 benches away. And the lone light post is dim and it flickers erratically. They're both waiting for the last scheduled bus.

"Water the plants tomorrow morning," he says quietly. Oh, he reminds her. Sometimes, when it's not too much of a trouble to make himself speak, he reminds her of things, many things, many random things. She thinks he only speaks because he still cares for his voice. Because how can he snap at her without it?

"I will," she answers back, slightly more cheerful.

He's talking about the plants that died 2 weeks ago. She knows his scowl deepens and she feels slightly victorious.

And the bus hasn't arrived yet.

The Kurosaki Ichigo that girls in her different classes know is the prince/movie star/shounen hero/super freaking smart/athletic hybrid super guy. All these, but he isn't really. Not so bombastic and princely and awesome like many girls believe. People mostly stay in the admiration line.

He broods a lot, really, a lot it's unhealthy. Rukia once tried to lift the spirit by putting small potted sunflowers at every corner of his house –he ended up chucking them away the same hour. "Cheap," he said. But Rukia defended, "still, it's nice…" But he answered, "These are plastic flowers. Don't buy them." Then she learned he doesn't like small efforts made for him by other people.

Rukia looks at him and any attempt at conversation is no longer applicable as she sees him _deeply_ scowling. Oh, the flowers must have offended him that bad.

She's not scared of him, she's not shy, she's not awkward, she's _threading_ carefully.

Nobody really says Kurosaki Ichigo is kind.

3 weeks ago, at the same bus stop, Rukia saw him up close for the first time. She only knew him as the guy with the bombastic rumors and someone who sits at the far corner of the audi during history class. She saw him seated in the same bench, eating the same cold sandwich, drinking the same Fanta, wearing the same hood and back pack. But she could not care.

_She sits on the bench, waiting for something she doesn't really know. Rukia sits stiffly. Her dress is damp and her shoes are gravely uncomfortable. It is 9 in the evening and this is harder than expected. This is being directionless. Her family driver dropped her off here, at the bus stop before surrendering the car, and wished her a throaty yet hearty good luck._

_She's well aware of him sitting right there waiting for the last scheduled bus. _

_Yet she thanks him, she's glad for his muted company, the hunch male form, at least no goon would come up to her in the meantime. _

_But 'in the meantime' will end in a minute as she sees the headlights approaching._

_He stands from the bench and walks up to the entry point, waiting for the bus to pull over._

_The bus pulls over and she closes her eyes and thinks she's alone; she doesn't look long enough to see him walk up to the bus._

She sits alone, the cold wind blowing and uncomfortable deep to the soul and lost in the universe.

"_Hey," he says._

_Rukia looks up, startled._

"_What's wrong with you?" He asks, he doesn't like talking in a high volume, and he doesn't care about his tone, too. He walks up to her and asks again, "what's wrong with you?"_

_Rukia hears him and wonders herself, what's wrong with me?_

"_That's the last bus." __He says like he's berating her._

_Strange, her classmates say he doesn't talk much._

_"Oh," a sigh then, "I didn't know."_

_She looks up, and it is surprising to see the eyes of the guy who sits in the corner of the audi aren't that dark like what her seatmates fantasize, they are a lighter shade of caramel._

_"Where do you stay?"_

_Ahh, she finds it hard to answer, she considers not telling the truth but there is no reason to lie either._

_"I have no place to go." She answers heavily._

_He suddenly walks out and goes to the bus entry point and looks at his watch repeatedly._

_Rukia doesn't expect him to help, but she is sure he won't spread rumors either-_

"_Keep my house tidy, dust everything, pluck the overgrown grass and you can stay." He says, and she finds him suddenly in front of her._

_"What?" What?_

_Rukia stares up at him. _

Nobody really says Kurosaki Ichigo is kind, but Kurosaki Ichigo's kindness is disarming.

Then another bus arrives.

* * *

to be continued


	3. books about beasts, bees and butterflies

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Warning: ooc. segmented. slice of life.

*re-uploaded.

**rent**

**iii. books about beasts, bees and butterflies**

_appleschan_

* * *

She discovers, one of his habits is going to the library to borrow a book -he's cheap, he doesn't like spending on an expensive copy when one is readily available unless of course it's a matter of reading a newer version- then heading straight to one of the university rooftops to read, not that his habit is surprising at all.

But the books he checks out aren't within the last five years nor are they academic, they're well past a hundred years ago and some thousands, the surviving copies of old western novels and some Heian poetry compilations and translations.

Then she thinks, all shoujo heroes must have some sort of endearing habit.

In his house, she sees a large collection of classical books and old poetry books. He said something about not liking (not liking, _not_ hating) the modern ones because they are trying too hard, too superficial, too superfluous but empty. The way he said _empty_ struck something in her, like he means it dearly, like he's looking for something otherwise, she supposes it's because it's hard to find _heart_ nowadays.

Then she makes a mental note, Kurosaki Ichigo likes _heart_.

Maybe that's why he threw the plastic sunflowers away in the first hour she put them in their places.

Today, they both have no class. So she bought tulips (white and yellow and violet) and a white china vase from a thrift store -oh, vintage and all that, to match his affinity for old books. It's just a short walking trip from his house to the old florist who offered her the tulips in a slashed price. She will put them where most of his battered books are usually placed, because she doesn't give up easily.

Currently, she holds them in a badly-wrapped, badly-concealed paper bag.

It's the second story of his house where he keeps a huge room open (meaning he broke down the door because it's prone for locking itself because of its old and malfunctioning lock) for his old books and he keeps a single cushioned chair in the middle to sit and a circular old rug under it. Rukia thinks, it's wistfully funny and otherworldly familiar because he's so old-fashioned. That a guy like him still exists.

His house is old-fashioned, too. She begins to think rumors about his lineage are true, the different katanas locked in glass cases with a covering of at least 2-inch of dust each and European-styled furniture and books written in German.

But rumors missed something, he lives alone –well, at least, before he took her in. He lives in a manor sort-of house, big, wrought-ironed gates, soot-covered walls and just generally dark, dark, dark.

So he lives alone and buys his food from the convenience store. And she can stay if she helps in cleaning his house.

Admittedly, after 3 weeks, she only about accomplished the front garden –where the dying (and dead) flowers are.

He said, "_Stupid, clean the house first."_ Ahh, he means that after telling her to water the plants, "_leave them be after watering them_," she almost heard him say last night before they parted ways at the staircase.

She left them. But she bought the tulips and is currently thinking of where she'll place them; this room is huge.

She takes the vase and sits cross-legged behind the large cushioned chair, down at the circular rug, turned away from the door to arrange the flowers. She bought at least a dozen tulips and really, she has no idea how her previous maids and florists do this, she could simply chuck the flowers in and pour water but she didn't want it to look haphazardly done or she might risk him chucking it away again.

She just finished putting the last violet tulip when she hears the cushion chair creaks and she stops mid-pour.

She hears the soft rustling of papers and knows instantly he's probably reading again. She feels his presence behind her, silent and big.

Awkward it is that he catches her sitting behind his chair in his home library. Then he acts like it's nothing.

She's about to mutter an apology –yet he won't really care- then exit quickly until she hears him softly say, "Put that in the desk by the window."

Something falls into place and good thing she knows how to conceal a smile.

There's a large window behind the chair, to where she's sitting pointing to, to where the afternoon sun is shining softly.

And she answers, "That's what I thought, too."

* * *

to be continued


	4. sky from 4,892 light years away

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Warning: ooc. segment-continues. slice of life.

**rent**

**iv. sky from 4,892 light years away**

_appleschan_

* * *

He thinks more than he feels, works more than enjoys more and it's _okay_.

Also, he runs more than he walks –and it's literal.

He jogs every night at 11 pm because that's the healthy thing to do, except that it isn't exactly healthy in that hour.

He speeds up –there isn't much to see. Mid-road, in-between and seemingly alone.11:30 pm when night defines night, and when silence defines silence. 11:30 pm when the post lamp flickers like those in horror movies and thugs could be roaming and there are fireflies in the trees. Sweat beads forming in his forehead and he wears a jacket and shorts and running shoes and he breathes still as he run.

It's like the early morning, like 5:30 in the morning, when the sun is about to rise and the heart is calm and steady. 11:30 pm is his 5:30 am –he thinks she knows because she keeps a large cold bottle of water ready for him in the table (they don't have a fridge because nobody really uses it) and an onigiri she buys with her store salad (that she doesn't eat but still buys anyway) the same way one would prepare freshly brewed coffee and muffin for breakfast.

He ends up eating that onigiri every 3 am because programmers are awake at night, programming majors likewise, they think more and work more.

And so he jogs –to keep his energy, to think and work more, because his day is night. At the back of his mind, he thinks, it's the different kind of silence, it's being able to feel the world revolve.

He sleeps at 5 am and wakes at 12 pm, his class starts at 2 pm.

While his world is a circadian disaster –more of a choice than an actual need, hers is proper –_mechanical_\- more of a need than an actual choice. She's awake before 5 am, leaves at 7 am for her 8 am class and goes home with him every 9 pm –he knows because he couldn't really sleep until 8 am. Her dead hours are spent on the library, steadily studying. That or working as an assistant. He doesn't know, he never asked.

The only recognition that they are living together is a _nod_, sometimes, a quiet _hey_ or _morning_ or simply silence.

In the morning, when he's all done, she would walk downstairs (he works downstairs because of the obscenely large window he prefers and only opens at night), in yellow pajamas, she would find him so engross in solving algorithms written in his notes, then he would hear a quiet, "oh," then he would know, it's almost 5:00 am and he would prepare to go to sleep.

Walking upstairs back in his room, he'll hear another "oh?" from her down in the kitchen, then she would find out he already brewed the coffee for her and a muffin is beside it.

Communication does not necessarily mean talking and not seeing each other frequently does not necessarily mean they don't live with each other and this is okay.

They both have something to do and be busy about and they barely cross lines and there were very, very few words spoken between them and the stars are so far away, too-

-Ichigo turns back, it is 11:45 pm, he should be back, he exceeded his scheduled time.

Changing his direction while maintaining his speed, he runs back.

He finds it easier and faster to run back to his house these days, it's probably because he has direction, instead of lines in the road disappearing as he run towards the opposite way. That or the unimpeded view of the unpolluted night in his house's direction serves as an effective distraction or because he has a semblance of something to look forward to.

_Of course_, he could see from afar, her room, it's still lit by the time he gets home at 12 midnight -he thinks she's studying still, for the scholarship she recently received.

He recounted, he barely noticed her presence a few days after he offered her his help.

To this day, he hasn't heard her thank him –not that's he expects her to. He supposes she shows her gratitude through her little flower efforts and she's particularly very bad at it. Or being unmindful of him and being quiet. For that, he's wordlessly grateful.

He doesn't know what happened to her, he knows her as the girl in one of his classes. That's all. And he doesn't seek to know more.

Ichigo's reason for helping her is simple, it's because he has a house. It's big. And it's _empty_.

* * *

to be continued

*_the vy canis majoris distance from earth_.

thank you for the favorite author alerts and follows last year, the year before that and very early this year.

you guys are weird.

but sweet.


	5. ocean night in 36,070 feet

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Warning: ooc. segmented. slice of life.

_*chapter withdrawn. wrong file. app not syncing. dunno which device i saved the correct version, i had to check first._

**rent**

**v. ocean night in 36,070 feet**

_appleschan_

* * *

Tonight, as Rukia follows him to the bus stop where they usually go after class, she notices (while thoughtfully deciding if he would like umeboshi filled onigiri over the yakiniku filled ones for his early morning snack) they're not walking in the correct alley.

She stops following his haunch hooded form. He never said "follow me" or "we will go somewhere" or something remotely similar to that.

Rukia suddenly turns back without hesitation and walks the other way immediately, her footsteps inaudible, certain he won't notice if she leaves too fast; she should not follow him, what if he wants to be alone? Who is she to intrude to that? Sharing his house with her is enough, and their world revolves in quietness and silent exchanges and that, too, is enough.

She looks back –out of curiously, really- and unexpectedly, she sees him looking at her as she walks away so she stops again, half-turning to him, surprised. His body half-turned to her almost unwillingly, like she's disrupting something and it irks him to spare her his time. And then she remembers, Kurosaki Ichigo doesn't like wasting time.

She's also certain he's almost glaring. She awkwardly stands there.

Then slowly, he turns to her fully and it's like she could hear him berate her (again and again, about the last bus and the flowers). She supposes this is the _third_ again that will be followed by a long list of _agains_.

"Where are you going?" He asks quietly.

Rukia wonders to herself, did she miss something? Roadwork? Bus Stop station change? The hour? Did he say anything about something earlier?

"The usual," she answers hesitantly –the store, bus stop and his house.

He turns around and walks away, "the store won't have a supply of reheated meals until Friday. If you want to eat, follow me. Otherwise, go."

_Ahh_, surprised but not entirely shaken, she stands there while he goes away, contemplating. For weeks in succession, he eats sandwich with her while seating on a bench waiting for the bus, and for weeks she thinks it's not going to change because he sticks with his schedules so much and he doesn't like interruptions and going out of way for something trivial (and he thinks food is trivial) and it's funny because they're actually going out of their way for something so "trivial".

Rukia tightens her pale blue coat and rubs her finger less mitten-clad hands together. A cold July night mid-month and she figures this isn't so bad for a hot bowl of miso or ramen or udon.

And so she follows him with no idea –this isn't the best part of the city with the famed and greatly reviewed restaurants.

He takes (leads) her to a seaside small cramped food stand –it's not a classy restaurant, not even a fast food, it's near the concrete barrier separating the sea and solid road. There are small tables and mismatched chairs placed all around the steam-filled stand and everything is lighted by plain light bulbs. It's where most people drink cheap sake after work, it's also a commended ramen-ya. It's strangely comfortable in its dingy set-up.

He looks at her, asking, she thinks, about her order. And she glances blankly at the pictures (clearly doesn't know how to order) and looks back at him blankly. He scoffs in a way that tells her, _'idiot, I'll take care of it_.'

After, he finds seats near the back (from where they're standing) of the circular place, Rukia follows him there. It's a table for 6 and they sat end to end, opposite each other, negative spaces between them.

In an offhand manner, just something, just anything to break the silence, looking at the bulb-lined coastline then a little farther to where there's no longer distinction that runs between night and sea, she says she likes art-

"Then what do you think of impressionism?" then comes his immediate reaction.

Surprised (she does not expect him to) but not speechless, her violet eyes snap at his direction to see him looking expectantly at her, then, he slides his hood off and she clearly sees his shoulder-length bright orange hair and it kind of matches his amber eyes and he's not entirely unattractive and she suddenly feels not looking anymore.

But feels he's waiting for her answer, and really, she doesn't want to seem dumb in front of the guy with the highest scores. She did read about these things but found she had no hand for painting but nevertheless, sincere in telling him she likes it.

"Well, they broke what's considered conventional," she says, "they do not exactly conform to the rules, do they? It must have been a fun year for the French critics."

She does not make any comments about his hair.

He says nothing in return, of course, and the silence continues until their orders arrive. Both Tokyo-style ramen for them.

He finished his, she finished hers.

"What about Yamato-e?" he asks again.

She blinks again, he's determined to bring this up, "Oh it's a very distinctive art form, when you see one, you know where it came from, the classical Japanese style."

"You mean, it conforms to the rules of Japanese style?"

"Just like the rules of impressionism for impressionists."

"But you said impressionists do not follow the conventional rules, how can they break the conventional art rule but set rules for themselves?"

"I didn't say they set rules literally, I mean, style. Particular style that, well, differentiates them. Wait, what-I don't- I mean , I don't get this. What are you on about?" Strangely so, there is frustration in her voice and a little bit of mirth in his.

He challenged, "Then what is better?"

"That is absurd! You can't compare these two!"

There is no better art, she knows that, everything created out of passion is the creator's best and not subject for competition against other creator's best.

But then, she suddenly realized, he's asking for himself, in a roundabout way.

It's not about the rule breaking impressionists or the meticulous Yamato-e stylists, it' about him and how she sees him, differently against other people.

She knows, the rumors in her classes, how he doesn't like people much, how he likes to brood, how he's both admired and distant, and she thinks, it's about him, and that she has to choose her next words carefully.

She never saw him this attentive.

And she says, "no style is better, it's fine not to conform."

* * *

It's 10 pm and he no longer walks ahead of her, he walks almost beside her and she wants to tell him it's fine, she can handle the thugs leering at her but doesn't because whenever she slows her pace, he'll stop and wait for her to catch up to him.

She pops a peach flavored candy in her mouth while walking -something that a little kid gave her hoping it will cheer her up on her way to her classes, because sweets make you happy, and she didn't argue about cavity. She took three. And she offered one to Kurosaki but he only looked at her like she offered him a vomit-flavored jelly bean.

"If you know how to look, then you would know nights are far brighter than days," he says when he glimpse her looking above.

"Oh? Vincent Van Gogh?" Rukia quickly amends, "though that's not what he said exactly."

They reach the bus stop and the twinkling sign of the convenience store flashes in front of them.

"I know," he answers and she seems to hear the glare in his voice, and feel the stubbornness in his walks.

He crosses the road towards the store and she follows him.

She learns, he likes art. He learns, she likes art as well.

Then she thinks having no food supply in the convenience store isn't so bad at all.

She doesn't understand him yet, not much, but it's a start.

.

.

.

A while, while, while later, when they got home, she thinks, as she looks at the nicely wrapped yakiniku filled onigiri and a bottle of cold water in his table, what he said about the convenience store can't be true. (The store clerk smiled at her toothily as he presented her a wide array of freshly delivered onigiri to choose from. And when she glanced at Kurosaki, he looked as if he hadn't said anything and casually strode past her to pay for whatever indeterminate thing he bought.)

.

.

.

He bought the two of them fish-shaped ice cream waffles which they ate while waiting for the bus. He handed it to her wearing a grumpy expression that tells her, don't thank me.

She's surprised (again). She thanked him still.

.

.

.

He doesn't know and she doesn't know why, but she waits for him. She waits for the eerie creaking of the wrought iron gates at 12 midnight, the steady opening of the door and his heavy footsteps and the familiar sound of his computer turning on.

There is _'ahh'_ and _'okay'_ and she feels much better.

.

.

.

If he wanted to eat ramen, he should have told her straight. Rukia, _still_, would go with him.

.

.

.

She placed the remaining two peach-flavored candies beside the onigiri. Tonight had been special.

.

.

.

His house has a ridiculous amount of large and tall windows. And she keeps her window open at 1 in the morning trying to make sense of what he said earlier. She hears him typing relentlessly downstairs while she pushes a cushioned small sofa in front of the tall window and then curls up with her pajama and blanket and begins to decipher the night the way he and Vincent Van Gogh would.

The longer she looks at the inky sky, the faster she reverts into thinking of ways to tell him: "All I see is black", "It's just dark and cold" or "I'm not a poet" or "my mind is not the deep sea I don't understand" or "I can't even identify a metaphor!" Or "I'm bad at making metaphors" or "I can't see the colors" or even "why are you even interested in these things? You're a programmer. You like logic, algorithm and equation" and "sometimes, I don't get you" this, among all, is the most true.

_Kurosaki, Kurosaki._ She thinks, over bowls of steamy ramen and store supplies and fish-shaped waffles with vanilla ice cream for dessert and quiet bus rides, she sees bits of him. Oh he does smile, discretely, when he's reading. She has seen it and isn't sure if she's suppose to.

_Kurosaki, Kurosaki._ He's truly not unkind, truly not unkind.

Just the downside is this: he wears his hood not just over his head but to everything else. But the upside is this: she thinks he is not that hard to understand, except his richly colored nights and Gogh reference, but this isn't some sort of problem with tragic proportions, she is sure, because there are many more nights to understand what he meant -_him_.

.

.

.

Two days later, while dusting in his home library, she unexpectedly saw his ID and learned that his birthday was two days ago.

* * *

to be continued

_*marianas trench from the sea surface._

i always find it hard to write fluff then i realized it's because i've been rejecting the idea of writing common fluff all along. i prefer quiet actions and poetry and heart

(cat, cat is fluffy and so are bunnies, bunnies are fluffies. cute-cute. #poetry)

(6 am na gising pa 'ko)


	6. sundance

disclaimer: i do not own bleach. i make no profit.

warning: ooc. segmented. slice of life.

rent

6\. sun dance

_appleschan_

* * *

Unfortunately for her, but fortunately for the rest of her classmates, her final 3-hour class for the day is cancelled because of the –_plickplockplickplockplickplock_\- heavy rain.

The 4-pm rain is a drizzle, the 5-pm rain is heavy and the 6-pm rainy weather turns severe, so severe that she internally thanked herself for bringing her rain boots with her out of a moment's strike earlier (she drank her coffee and went out immediately, taking the unbitten muffin with her, in case of a heavy morning rain along her way to the university grounds) and Rukia being Rukia, prepared as always, _also_ has an umbrella with her but she dare not travel in this weather and more importantly, she has _no_ key to his house.

Rukia sits in one of the roofed-benches lining the edges of the barely lit driveway towards the university field while the rain hammers down wondering what to do. The cold from steel begins to seep in her leggings. She rubs her palms together and puts them in her cheeks for warmth.

With this weather, most of the students had gone out. And Ichigo, she wonders, she doesn't know, they don't have classes together today. And she does not expect to see him linger more than necessary. And really, there is no reason for them to see each other during university hours outside classes.

It's all literature, she thinks distantly, other than the quiet bus rides and brief meetings in the morning and slight encounters in the weekend, it's _just_ literature class. And that how well she knows him really? Would all these account for something? Rukia isn't sure if she crossed the boundary from acquaintance to friendship yet.

Before, she hears his name from the grandiose rumors, she sees his hair from the crowd, she knows he's a brooding presence in her literature class; Kurosaki is an unreachable romantic hero, for a moment, the brightest star, the peak of the mountain, everyone's curiosity then a blink of an eye, turns a corner and he's out of her mind. _It's just literature class_. It's true but it isn't exactly right. After his discrete birthday treat (she never told him she knows), Rukia unconsciously becomes more aware of him. Hearing his name carries a more personal effect than she would like to, seeing his hair color among the crowd draws familiarity (she stops, he stops: nod, greet, hey, bye), he's not a brooding presence in her class, she knows his great interest in books, she would consider him not brooding but creating mental debates against whoever they're studying.

On a more personal note: he likes onigiri, he jogs at night, he sleeps at mornings, he is undoubtedly kind. This is as personal as it gets.

Other than that, she wonders, what else?

(_nothing_, the back of her mind screams. and it bothers her) Can she call him a friend?

-and it's still raining, but it dwindles, slowly, the raindrops fall not as hard as minutes before. Ruckus looks up and contemplates on waiting in the bus stop. She stands and realizes how dim it is where she sits, but _not_ from the corner of her eyes.

Rukia just noticed the lights in the playing field is on (at least one is on) amidst the rain. And people.

She ignores it and walks the other direction towards the bus stop.

.

.

.

Some say he plays as good as Honda Keisuke.

He's provocative and smart and good looking and strong and that's a football superstar thing –girls in the stand think collectively.

For Ichigo, being the new attacking midfielder is as easy as maneuvering algorithm in advanced C++. Breezy. Too easy. Second nature. So he does not, for the life of him, understand the throng of people (girls mostly, annoyingly so) who come to see (amidst the rain) him practice like what he does is something special. (His efforts, however, are expensive; his plays for the team are paid. And his recruiter stands at the side with a bittersweet smile).

Too many people, he thinks sourly, he couldn't see their faces quite clearly. He's waiting for her. _Where is she?_ It's 8 pm.

He told her, of course, left it in the little note under the muffin this morning, told her to get the keys from him and he'd be busy to go with her and not to go home too late:_ meet me in the field. 7 pm._

He keeps his watch on and his keys near in case he needs to make a quick run to her. Then after 30 minutes of waiting (while playing) with him shooting glares in all directions looking for a short girl with odd violet eyes, he does not see her anywhere. His practice ends an hour earlier, to the dismay of their coach and teammates and the crowd.

"Because I have to buy milk," he reasoned then breezed past everyone.

.

.

.

Rukia waits for more than an hour. _So he's not in the bus stop after all._ It is 9:15 pm and it's still raining and she waits while reading, the dim post lamp not too suitable but enough to make sense of Ms. Woolf's peculiar voice (a copy she secretly "borrowed" from his doorless library).

Ichigo slumps at the far side of the bench, dripping from rain after having run the entire way without an umbrella and wearing his university football uniform (black jersey short and socks and shirt) that, because of rain, clung to him and Rukia briefly looks away. He throws his multiple bags in the bench and she feels him step in front of her:

He's not scowling at her, he's scowling at the bench, at the wet pavement, at the post lamp, at the tree behind her head. "Were you here all this time?" he asks.

* * *

to be continued

edit: i meant soccer/_futbol_ (this terminology thing) i'm 95% sure i'll attend the next world cup in russia.

(lagi ako napagkakamalan estudyante, pero talaga, vente tres na ko)


	7. wonderland is a jump away

disclaimer: i do not own bleach. i make no profit.

warning: ooc. segmented. slice of life.

**rent**

7\. wonderland is a jump away

_appleschan_

* * *

He's aware, from every drop of rain to the growing chill in the air to the flickering post lamp to the fluttering in his chest to the bright glass-like appearance of her eyes in the dark and to the arching of both of her eyebrows, he sounds like a worried boyfriend.

So he steps back a little, severely embarrassed, looks away and runs a hand in his damp hair.

"Yes…" Rukia answers, and then changes her tone upon he has more to say, "yes…?"

(he hopes she does not catch the awkward tone in his tone)

"I mean," He starts but loses the words immediately, "I mean…" He stares down and finds an interesting piece of rock beside her shoes, so so interesting, he thinks.

Rukia interrupts, "sorry, is there a problem? Should I be somewhere else?"

Rukia puts down the book, and –for the first time in months- really looked at him up close.

He stands in front of her, beside the post lamp. And the light catches him, and he stands out in the dark. She catches the brightness of his hair and liquid color in his eyes –they are _really_ not brown, not like common brown, not like brown-brown, and she remembers how she thinks they are like caramel and amber and how true that was. (And he continues to run his hand in his hair like a bashful boy and does not look at her straight, his shoulders hunching, very contradictory to the –so it would seem- athletic uniform he wears.)

She asks again, "Is there a problem?"

"Nothing," he says exasperatedly and opts to sit beside her, moving his bags down. She probably had not seen the note. Or ignored it or forgot about it or whatever. (and that it should not bother him)

"Are you sure?" She asks again, he glances at her, briefly, and tells her, "nothing really, I meant to give you a duplicate of my house keys -he digs out a key from the pocket of his bag and tosses it to her, she catches it- but it isn't done so I have to wait for it around this lunch."

-that she could not reply anything other than, "I'm sorry, that I really-"

_Ah, Rukia _thinks, he really does care for other's well being. She already knows this, but the actual experience of it is really something else.

"It's fine. I'll be attending soccer practice from now on, you can go home by yourself."

"Oh? Soccer?" She asks, genuinely interested.

"Somebody paid me to play." But he doesn't seem interested, so she pushes no more.

"How long were you waiting?" He looks at her and she sees how tired he is.

"An hour or so, but it's nothing."

"I left you a note, under the muffin," he doesn't say '_I left for you this morning_,' Rukia thinks-

-then, "What, you did?!" Rukia rummages her bag for a note. And indeed, she finds a small note taped beneath her muffin: _meet me in the field. 7 pm_.

"Oh?" She doesn't comment on how strangely vague and familiar and embarrassing the way he phrased it.

Looking at the small muffin, and how tired he is, she hands it back to him, "here."

"What? No."

He looks at it as if she's offering him some grime filled, used soccer shoes, and she, the sweat-filled, stinky, tousled purple-eyed soccer player.

"Kurosaki-san, I'll treat you to dinner tonight," she stands up then bows at him, "I am really sorry about missing your note and all the inconveniences that came with it."

Then she pulls her umbrella and runs to the convenience store before he could protest, leaving him surprised.

.

.

.

"Oh?" she says, pleasantly shocked, looking at him tying his shoes outside in the front steps of his house.

It's 7 am, and he should be sleeping.

"Uh, did not sleep ?" she inquires softly as she hops down and skips the first two steps and lands soundlessly on the ground, almost expecting no answer or a simple grunt from him.

"Hmnn," he grunts. And Rukia smiles to herself.

It's quite sunshine-y today (even at that early time) with no dimming, so she does not see the need to bundle herself in her blue coat and scarf or carry her rain boots with her, she wears an egg-yolk-yellow strap dress and a hat that she consciously chose to reflect her mood.

Ichigo (curiously) is not wearing a black hoodie today, she notes, looking at his simple denim, scuba-blue t-shirt and the boat shoes he's tying.

"Hmn," she says, "you are not wearing black today," this comes as a statement and meant it as that only, so she doesn't know where: "No hoodie?" came from.

"Why would I wear a hoodie under _this_ sun?" he stands up and scowls at her –surprising her, rendering her open-mouthed for a second, because he's so tall and he actually said something not brooding. (He seems to mock her but she thinks it's a good-natured one.)

"Really, who does that?" He says then slings his bag (now larger) and walks past her and goes out of the gate, but he leaves it open for her, after covering a distance worth ten steps, he stops and looks back at her.

"Oi, you coming or not?"

Rukia hurries and closes the gate behind her, thinking how pleasantly surprising to see Ichigo under the sun.

(she does not, however, ask why he's up early or why he's going with her)

.

.

.

5 minutes later and they are back on the bus stop.

The bus arrives and before boarding, he turns around and faces her, his face grim, Rukia stays still, wondering what he's going to say.

"Did you buy flowers again?"

_Oh_. "No," Rukia answers, "why?"

"Of you did not, then why are there daffodils in the garden?" He tilts his head to her. (Behind him, she catches the bus driver frown at them) As if daring her to lie barefaced about her evident lack of green thumb.

"Surely, you did not plant those."

Rukia's eyes narrowed, "Hey, I grew them myself!"

He snorts and steps inside the bus.

"I grew them myself!" she hisses after him. He does not react other than a slight curving of his mouth (is that a smile?) and arching of both his eyebrows.

(Rukia finds herself light hearted during the entire bus ride, like seeing the sun stripes in pastel colors, like appreciating how birds belong to the sky and how trees belong to Earth, like how the wind blows on her gently and how nature tells her, _I'm here_ . They don't sit beside each other. She sits behind him, a book propped open on her lap, a dried orange tulip as a bookmark; he sits by the window quietly listening to music.)

.

.

.

She never takes him as a morning person, and so breakfast and him do not match. No coffees. No teas. No sandwich. No traditional breakfast. And that, she realizes, she never knew his morning routines past 5 am, or if he has one, she thinks he sleeps until 10 am or 12 am.

Curious, she follows him to a small and cramped coffee shop, and minutes later, finds herself seated in a table opposite him. He doesn't say anything, and she thinks that's a positive sign that he isn't shooing her away.

He has his black-rimmed glasses on and is typing at the laptop he uses for coding and programming, untouched bagel and cream cheese and coffee beside him. She did not order anything for herself, having eaten two muffins, one from last night and one this morning.

"You can leave if you're late," he says, slightly nodding to the door.

"No, I have an hour to go," she answers casually, her purple eyes looking at the vintage inspired place, the typewriters and china teacups and teapots, carnation and lacework tablecloths, frames and paint-peeling wooden chairs, drapes and candelabras. What an odd choice for him. She thinks it's probably the half-part of his heritage, the German-Japanese power family rumor and that it's probably true-

"Then why do you leave so freakishly early?" he stops typing and sips his coffee and looks at her.

Rukia pauses and looks back at him –who is so close at the moment- she doesn't exactly know how to feel about him freely starting conversations.

* * *

to be continued


	8. hear it in the silence

rent

8, hear it in the silence

by appleschan

* * *

_"Then why do you leave so freakishly early?" he stops typing and sips his coffee and looks at her._

_Rukia pauses and looks back at him –who is so close at the moment- she doesn't exactly know how to feel about him freely starting conversations._

Perhaps, some walls are too high (just yet). Their worlds are still sutured divided to _his_ and _her_. He's not meant to ask about her day, how it started, how it ended, or what she did during the afternoon. He has, after all, no business over her activities. _His_ and _her_. Ichigo regrets the passing of the little question from his mouth, it's hurried, intruding and unnecessary. He dislikes the unnecessary, they're blockages, the unnecessary doesn't make his codes and programs work, the same way in living, he supposes.

So of course, Ichigo means it terribly: "sorry," he takes back quickly, setting the coffee down and withdrawing his hand from the cup. Rukia does the same, keeping her hands off the table.

They are quiet for a moment. Ichigo stopped typing, both of them looking outside the window, watching the streets and the front gates of the university, the morning sky unfurling life a blooming flower. Neither is the type to fill up the silence with chatty, petty exchanges over breakfast. Ichigo – Rukia thinks – likes to talk, and _talk only_ when he has something to say.

Just as equally, his silence says so much. She has come to know these variations of silence in-between (like how she's more aware of his presence in a crowd). She learns of the silence that follows when his lips are pursed – annoyed, this is simply the most recognizable – when his coffee is cold, when his shoelaces are tied arbitrarily, when somebody's volume is too loud while on earphones. But he is not always looming, on the littlest of times, his face brightens a bit, wordless calm, his mouth curved slightly, and his breathing steady – when he gives his seat to an elderly, when he pets a stray dog, when he gets his favorite juice drink. The times his face brightens, they do not rival the sun nor do they compete with the most charming smile of the most popular male idol, but Ichigo's are honest, his mouth sharp and slight, and they make simpler things a bit more meaningful. However, the embarrassed and disappointed are identical: the dropping of shoulders, and a palpable crack in the air. Rukia knows too, when he is uncomfortable.

(she also understands, for all his scowl outside and nonchalant aloofness, no matter how little and seemingly insignificant, if it affects his image, he'll mull over it. He probably thought he was intruding too much)

"You noticed...?" Rukia asks, her tone tentative, digging gently to the cause of his discomfiture and trying to ease it. Though initially muddled, Rukia remembers that it is only polite because he is host and she is guest, Rukia never forgets.

"Yeah. Obviously, because you live in my house."

But his answer comes short and spontaneous and unexpected, his tone snappy and playful sarcastic, and it prompts Rukia to laugh a bit. "You" and "live" and "my house" are words almost never spoken in their presence.

"Yes, yes, of course, I know, I know, you are very kind." Rukia amends easily and unthinkingly, in between small laughs.

Ichigo doesn't know if she meant that as a pass – a mock or not. At loss, he calls her "…idiot" softly, and gets back to his coffee, grimacing at its susceptibility to coldness, then looking over his progression at his laptop's screen, blinking at the cursor blinking back at him.

Glancing at her over his laptop, she's still laughing softly, and still, he doesn't get, so he asks her almost exasperatedly, "oi, what's funny?"

(there something earnest about Rukia. She laughs naturally, like a mild bell on a Sunday morning, melodious without trying to. so now, there's this memory forming: breakfast over laptops and croissant and quiet morning and earnest laughs)

"Oi," Ichigo pushes, annoyance visible.

This girl who he knows – who everyone knows – as a sister to some rich guy, some kind of a polished doll who probably excelled in everything, someone he'll never bother to give a second glance. Then suddenly, this girl who he knows – who everyone probably doesn't know – now lives with him. It isn't that she invaded a part of his life – house, it isn't that she filled a gaping hole either, and it definitely isn't that he's just tolerating her. Kuchiki kept to herself most of the time, appearing curious to the little trinkets in his house, but they were nothing more than a glance. Mostly, Ichigo lets her be.

Rukia laughs. Rukia laughs because Ichigo (who is elusive and reclusive and who chooses his words carefully) can be spontaneous, and it's a curious thing to be associated with such a person. She laughs because Ichigo, for all his sulkiness and moroseness, has a surprising underlying layer, something probably warm and raw. This is what definitely, thinks Rukia, he is uncomfortable about: a glimpse to that side.

Rukia, a little uplifted by her newfound knowledge of Ichigo, draws confidence – something in the making since he _offhandedly_ made fun of her this morning over bought and planted flowers and the colors of his jacket – and attempts to call him by his first name.

"_Ichigo_,"

"What?" He snaps back, a low growl. Sipping the last of his coffee and then shutting his laptop, he slants her a very dry look, yet nothing in his eyes forbids her to use his first name.

_Ahh_, Rukia concludes, so _it's fine_.

"I actually volunteer in the library. You know, for something extra." Rukia tells him casually.


	9. it takes three suns and two moons

rent

9\. it takes three suns and two moons

by appleschan

* * *

Ichigo recalled having caught Rukia sneaking into his doorless library three times.

First:

They were in the middle of exam week, and the stress surely had caught on to everyone including Kuchiki. Ichigo wondered about her studying habits while in the bus, in the bus stop, sitting on the bench near the university field where they meet before coming home, on the dining table, while caring for her dying flowers and setting up a small makeshift greenhouse. She had this quiet, enduring determination that belonged only to chipper and bright-eyed freshmen before they sell their souls to get to the next semester.

Ichigo knew her to be intelligent, a few glances while in class before he truly met her told him enough, she was articulate on discussions and very, very diligent. But she studied _everywhere_, Ichigo thought she was over-reacting, that it somewhat bordered on amusement for him while watching her cartwheel everywhere with a book on her face.

(Ichigo never had the need to share, but he can usually breeze an exam in minutes, and he can study quietly, in one place, in one sitting, calmly, and with extremely favorable results, too)

Ichigo swore to never eat packed ramen noodles inside his library while studying – not that he actually studied inside his library, it was always down on the circular living/sun room where the ceiling is two-storey high and the windows are as large as the walls. Ramen noodles ran stains and burn unpleasant tinges on his books. In one of the worst cases, his oldest book and chili sauce became inseparable. He banned them from coming into contact with _any_ of his books.

One evening, the night before her last and major exam, Ichigo found her camped inside his library sitting cross-legged on the floor with her reviewers around her. His library was circular, with bookshelves pushed against the wall, lining everything with books, at the center was his old reading chair. She opted to sit behind his chair, where she was obscured from view.

Ichigo just came home from his nightly jogs, and had to walk past his chair to peek on her. But Kuchiki was, as expected, so focused and furiously scribbling fast that she did not notice him looming behind her. She wore headphones, and Ichigo could hear a quiet hint of – most likely – Adagio for Strings.

There was, of course, that spicy and strong smell of chili and ginger – steamy ramen in a bowl, just there, casually put on his library wooden floor boards with a very thin piece of paper as the floor's only barrier, a meter from the closest pile of his books. He huffed, as if breathing out his frustration.

But whatever disapproval Ichigo felt had to be delayed until the next morning. He could not exactly reprimand Kuchiki on her choice of study area and the food she brought with her (he knew, packed ramen noodles is a staple food among college students) because he never really cleared any of his house rules to her. So Ichigo quietly retreated, stewing in his own disapproval, but letting her study throughout the night uninterrupted.

Second:

Ichigo brought home a portrait puzzle: 500 pieces, of Van Gogh's Starry Night, one warm afternoon and finished the entire puzzle under an hour, just before the last sip of his cold orange juice. He decided to keep the puzzle in a frame and hang it on the awkwardly empty wall of his library where the decade-old wallpaper is peeling.

There, instead, he saw Rukia sleeping, propped and curled like a cat on the floor at the back of his old reading chair. An opened book, _Manyoshu_, opened and covering the side of her face as she slept and snored lightly. There was that afternoon sunlight, warm and cozy on her sleeping form. Ichigo would let it that way, if not for the skinniness of her ankles and wrists, and the bony prominence that stuck out. Rukia had always been a bit okay-looking, as in kind of healthy-looking. He didn't think she was on the pink of her health, but she was okay, she was not sick, even with all those convenience store-produced food they consumed (and that hateful packed ramen noodles and its stains). He wasn't worried, he told himself, a little bit concerned – the tiniest of concerns, maybe.

Ichigo considered waking her from her uncomfortable position and ask her to rest on his old, admittedly softer chair (a recliner, actually) instead, but after noticing that she wore a shirt and shorts (and he just noticed it now – and he didn't want her thinking strange things), an odd sensation recoiled in his stomach, and he dismissed the thought and left immediately.

Ichigo didn't know what to be more annoyed about: her choice of sleeping position, or that she was a kind of, maybe a little bit, tiny bit _not okay_, or that she wore shorts and it made him embarrassed, or that she slept while a revered book of Japanese poetry lay haphazardly on her face.

Third:

Ichigo never thought Kuchiki was _that_ kind of girl, _how could she_, there was slight constricting in his throat as he thought of those things. Ichigo felt obliged to be offended on behalf of the classical books stacked primly in his library. Just that, Ichigo had to dissect his disapproval.

It's sacrilege, Ichigo thought a little bit darkly, letting romance manga and romance pocketbooks find their way on his library: graphic, and _may be_ indecent. He sighed out of disappointment, a long-drawn out one, as if it pained his lungs to know what's near his collection – and it's been a long time since _sighed_ over something.

It was a Sunday mid-morning, and the exams results – after a week – had been released. On the departmental level, Ichigo had everything marked near perfect to perfect. Kuchiki, in her own department, managed a ranked fourth position. Kuchiki told him she'll be gone the day before – Saturday – for an important errand, only to come back with "research materials" and "books for light reading." She was high-spirited and brighter and amused about something, Ichigo remembered looking at her suspiciously behind his glasses. But it dissipated when she mentioned these books were her rewards for taking a fourth position. It seemed harmless for a diligent Kuchiki to buy books and read as a reward, he let it go and went back to his codes.

There were laughs, of course, light giggles and the softest of chuckles, and it reminded of the time when they were in a café beside the university. Ichigo held a sigh at bay, they were becoming unhealthy.

He was standing outside his library, leaning on the wall beside the archway. She was, as always, hidden from view, sitting behind his reading chair, slumped on the floor, her curled form leaning to the left, to where the sunrays were.

But she's enjoying herself, Ichigo thought. He did not know what to make of it. For all his assumptions on her, the very diligent and classy Kuchiki liked romance mangas. His prejudice against those not listed as classic was being challenged by a girl barely reaching his neck, but it wasn't like there's anything he could do about it, and if he could, it wasn't like he will do something about it. Did she, Ichigo barely skirted the question, like stolen kisses and heartfelt confessions and elopements and – Ichigo stopped right then. He really had no right to question that.

Shaking his head, he decided on doing something he put out far too long (and to forget that she liked romance mangas). Ichigo went out to get something.

**.**

Ichigo recalled having caught Rukia sneaking into his doorless library three times. And so:

He bought her a reading chair, and placed it back to back against his old reading chair inside his library.

**.**

"I didn't take you for any pink bullshit, so deal with the color." He tells her.

On very rare occasions, there is smugness in him, detectable in his voice and he couldn't do anything to mask it. He bought her chair from a thrift antique store and had it reupholstered and it's huge and colored lilac.

Rukia just looks at him, bright-eyed. _Lilac_, certainly, is perfect. She thinks gratefully.

They are in his library. Rukia, just discovering her new chair, and Ichigo, while his codes compile, follows her upstairs and stands by the archway.

Her lilac chair is facing the window, facing the same tulips and vase she put in there, while his chair faces the doorway. A good amount of light filters from the window to a specific spot on the left arm of her chair, good for reading – the way she always does.

Ichigo remembers it's her customary way of reading, head tilted to the left, and book propped open on the left armrest while the rest of her body curled in a way he could not place _just exactly_ how comfortable.

She had been there when the delivery stopped by his front porch where he sat idle waiting for it (delivery was late for days, though, it only came yesterday). She was on the deck, transplanting her daffodils and saving her tomatoes. He received a curious look from her, a peeking, questioning but noninvasive arch of one eyebrow in which he answered by briefly glancing in her direction and saying, "_chair_." She nodded casually and went back to saving her dying daffodils. She had no idea.

"Ichigo, I-" Rukia pauses and thinks of something to say, thinks of what to thank him for first. It isn't just about the chair (though she thought sitting on his and using his library would be too much so she never used it). There are many things she wants to say, more than what she could think of at the moment. Admittedly too hard – right now – for her, when she learned all her life to bottle emotions. Instead, she settles on a playful quip, hoping it will convey her gratitude in some way (while she slowly picks up the words to thank him properly).

She smiles genuinely and tells Ichigo, "I thought you'd buy a door and lock me out."

Ichigo snorts, loud and a bit brash and playful in his own way. He considers her words for a long moment. How could he when she already claimed a part of his home.

"Believe me," Ichigo looks at her dead straight. Folding his arms over his chest, he tells her seriously, "I thought of it."

.

.

.

Later that day, while they are having their customary dinner at the bus stop in front of the convenience store, Rukia asks Ichigo how he could afford the reading chair and its repairs:

"I told the guy who…" Ichigo's face bunches up, like the times he's trying to remember names to match faces, but he has always been bad about it. "…whatever, the guy who pays me to play soccer. You know him-?"

"No-" Rukia answers.

"Yeah, well. I told him he'll pay me for listing and practicing in his team, and if we have a game, I'll charge double because then I'll have to give more time practicing. And if I can make the team win, I'll charge triple…because…well, I want to."

"Oh," chuckles Rukia, "your talent is _way_ _too_ very expensive. I will never hire you."

"Heh," responds Ichigo, relaxing onto the cold bench and finding some warmth on it.

* * *

thequeenindisguise: ahh, ikaw talaga, hindi naman. salamat. :p

hopelessromantic and hirako shinji and angie: you have my sincerest thanks.


	10. far away, someone sings far away

rent

10\. far away, someone sings. far away

by appleschan

a/n: if you read the error ch.10 rent, forget what you saw - it's still incoherent and stops mid-sentence and it's my final work for i/r. i mistakenly named it as rent's ch.10/11.

* * *

There is some form of dysfunctionality when it comes to living with Ichigo. He's neat, on how he dresses and carries himself when around others – _he's very neat_, from the absence of dirt on his shoes to his shipshape desk during classes and the seamless sharpened end of his pencil.

The dysfunctional: despite all his crisp and solid (and often dark-colored) clothes and all-cool appearances outside, at his workplace in his home, it is unexpectedly – to use his jargon – _unsystematic_.

However, it isn't polite, Rukia understands, one word that isn't easily said to the house owner's face.

The first time she used the word in front of him, it had been a mildly-cold, early December morning:

.

.

.

Rukia tiptoes downstairs to get a pitcher of water for her flowers.

To get to the kitchen, however, she needs to maneuver past Ichigo's mix of indeterminate stuff ranging from old CPUs to empty laundry baskets to tables to broken computer sets and some folders and scratch papers lining the hallways and his workplace.

Ichigo isn't necessarily an untidy person, he is by no means a stereotypical teenage boy who lets empty packs of chips and energy drink cans lying around - he doesn't even drink energy drinks nor eat chips. If anything, he drinks water in a glass, and coffee in a teacup and he eats slow and attentively, Rukia recalls fondly. Many times, Rukia had seen him wash his wares gingerly.

And though he lets stacks of papers and folders and computer stuff pile up, Rukia had not - _never _\- saw a single rodent, _ever _\- that or they just hide really well within Ichigo's mountains of indeterminate stuff.

The total lack of organizing system comes as a surprise, a dysfunction, an aberration against a neat and well-groomed Ichigo.

His house isn't dirty, sunlight and moonlight penetrate as easily, it's not like there are fungus or mold infestation or wasps settling in one of the rooms(_or are there?_) in his place, it's just:

"It's unsystematic here," Rukia said, hands on her waist, out of the blue, when a rustic globe model blocks her way.

Looking sideways, she saw there are offending boxes of unopened China teacups beside a basket of unfolded, clean laundry and physics textbooks stockpiled _within _the fireplace. That's atrocious, she thinks, it's heinous. Back at the Kuchiki manor. No such thing was ever out of place. Cold. Pristine. Forever clean. Butlers made it that way, they even had a furniture sorting system, digital, of course.

"Unsystematic, unsystematic," she repeats, knowing no one's going to hear her anyway, "it's very-"

"Messy?"

Rukia heard him from the main entrance. She looks in its direction, where Ichigo emerges from the foyer, holding a green banana on one hand. On another, he holds a plastic bag full of groceries.

She turns to him fully. _Oh_, she thinks, _I didn't mean it that way_ \- the dropping of her shoulders seems to say.

Rukia did not hear the rusty iron-wrought gates open, she knew Ichigo had gone into a larger grocery store this morning, not in their trusty convenience store, way, way past that. She heard him say earlier this morning, he needed to buy some specific things.

Rukia catches his eyes glancing briefly at her then lazily sweep at his messy workroom - then he shrugs, his well-practiced nonchalant shrug.

"Hnn," his starts, peeling his green banana slowly. "It's practical, I need my stuff close," he says equally lazy, but sufficient to answer her.

His eyebrows aren't furiously drawn together. He seems more relaxed today. There isn't tension on his shoulder, like in those times when they walk the absurdly long pavement leading to the University compound where other students greet him and he greets them back cold and hard and monotonous as if he were a talking wall.

_Ahh_, of course, of course, Rukia thinks he's more of a realpolitik guy, practicality over ideals.

Rukia keeps a smile and a little laugh which is also a bit apologetic, "right, I'm sorry you have to hear that. I just mean your workplace could use some sort of..." she pauses, tries to find a hardcore programming term, "I don't know, _automagical _sorting, organization? Compiling? or some such...I don't really get your language, I'm sorry."

That was rude of me, she wants to add.

Ichigo is halfway eating his unripe banana, blinking at her lazily, then, after a long pause, finishes his banana and tosses the peelings onto a nearby trash can, then looks back at her, and then, for a moment, _grins_.

(_this_, of course, takes Rukia by surprise; she always mentally catalogue Ichigo's _mouth curves_ \- or smiles - to detect his moods, and this one - this one is boyish, and head-turning, and devoid of his usual, harsh schadenfreude tendencies - he only grins when somebody tripped on his shoelaces or someone has eaten too much chili or when somebody missed the bus departure schedule and is left running behind the bus. _This_, Rukia doesn't know what to label it yet)

He shrugs again, placing the plastic bag on one chair, and them putting his left hand in his pocket, casually easing to a more relaxed state, staring onto the windows where soft sunlight filters, "_nah_, it does look like shit," he tells himself quietly.

.

.

.

"Does it still bother you?"

"What is?"

"That my place looks like shit?"

"No." Rukia's reply is immediate, and it is sincere, and she's a bit alarmed. If he's still thinking of that encounter earlier… "no, really, no."

"_Hn_," Ichigo's own form of reply. Hunched over his bowl, he resumes eating his convenience store-bought gyudon for dinner.

They are inside the convenience store this time, a seat apart. The lights inside are clinical, intensely pulsed, very bright, so they sat facing the smudgy glass window instead.

Outside, snowflakes form loose, knee-length, mini tornadoes. Winter sets in tonight. It has always been such a comforting thought.

Rukia resumes her own bowl of katsudon, picking out strips of carrots and occasionally peering at Ichigo through his dark reflection on the window pane.

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.

.

The next morning, Ichigo waits for her in the kitchen.

Rukia utters a polite good morning, mildly surprised upon seeing him sitting so quietly and so early on one of the stools, looking over at the piling snow outside the windows - tinged blue and violet. A cup of steaming coffee in front of him.

He nods at her, _good morning to you, too_, he seems to say, but raised his eyebrows at the redness of her coat.

Like her, he's covered himself in a black jacket, black pants, and wears black gloves. Rukia likes to think he doesn't care much about what he dresses with, that he is, Rukia thinks, a _natural_. His sleekness in stride and style - the simplest of his ways - naturally attracts attention, but he probably doesn't know that. (He talks to most girls and boys with an amount of emotion equal to a wall, after all, and talking to him is like monologuing, she does not forget)

Excusing herself, Rukia checks her potted plants and after ensuring none of them froze to death overnight - especially the basil, she proceeds to get herself a yellow mug - with words _hello, sunshine!_ \- and makes herself a coffee - the instant one, they run out of coffee beans.

There are two sets of plates, of chopsticks, utensils, glasses, and mugs only for them. And there are only two chairs.

"Hey -" Ichigo starts, when she settles herself opposite him.

"Hm?" Rukia leans in, tilting her head.

Hesitant at first he says quietly, "I think we should clean the house, like, not shit-faced cleaning, but more like-"

"Decluttering?"

"Yeah."

(of course, of course, her comment bothered him)

.

.

.

She and Ichigo agreed on separation, she'll declutter his hallways, and he'll declutter his workplace.

Armed with her sense of systematic planning, and dust fans, and dry rugs, she sets out to declutter his hallways.

.

.

.

She would never tell him:

In the beginning, Rukia allowed herself extremely limited movement around Ichigo's house, she goes straight to her room at the top - a former, old-fashioned observatory room with huge, open windows - from the wrought iron gates at the entrance every day.

She lightly threads Ichigo's place, other than occasional trips to his library, so she could not say for certain how huge, how vast his house is.

But there is something incredibly nostalgic about it, in its oldness, timeless silence, and absence of life.

At times, Rukia can see, when the afternoon is fading, between these hours, golden sunlight would gently spill onto the windows of the rooms, into the hallway, and Rukia, looking from her room or when she's descending the stairs, could see how the place was once dearly loved.

There were memories here, that's certain, she thinks. Loved, _loved_, and deeply cherished.

But she could never directly ask its main and current occupant about it.

Rukia made no question of the put-away furniture, of the photo frames both small and huge, all of them were covered by thick, mismatched blankets, tucked on corners of the house when she first came across them.

Rukia never saw the pictures - they were flipped, the front was facing the inner side of the frame.

To this day, she dares _not _open the photo frames and look at the pictures - that would be an extreme invasion of his privacy, she's not permitted to that side of him yet.

Curiously, some of the furnitures would peak under the thick blankets – winds blow in occasionally, and Rukia would see some pink cushion sofas - clearly a young girl's, and a study desk covered by faded posters of soccer stars. And there were variations of stethoscopes and old medicine boxes, too.

But, _but_, she terribly wants to ask if they _were_ family. If the pink cushion sofa and the study desk belonged to a sibling, if someone in the family had become a doctor. Or if, by chance, he just moved in and simply covered the previous occupants' things.

But that wasn't possible, Kurosaki, she knew, was an old family line, with heritage so deeply rooted in Karakura.

Some things - the more personal ones, she learns and tries to abide by, are not for her to know. She lets them be.


	11. pathological lover of days

rent

11\. pathological lover of days

_part 1_

by appleschan

* * *

Ichigo is up very early the next day. It's only a little over past 5 am, but he has already moved a table, a smaller circular table, a two-seater bench, 7 sets of lamps and two stools from the ground shed to the rooftop.

Before that, the boxes - which contained all his clutters from yesterday's haul- have all been neatly stacked into the shed, save for a long, rolled paper that has grown old and stiff and cracked at the edges. Also, he took the time to move Rukia's boxes which were, after all, his clutters as well, beside his in the shed.

The rooftop is circular with black gothic railings and it sits directly above his 2-floor workroom. Right now, it is currently blanketed in a thin layer of snow.

The rooftop doesn't have a working electrical connection. Sometime in the past, the oldness must have crept on it and eroded it, Ichigo is not so sure when, but he brought pale green lamps - the kind used in camping trips.

Still, everything else on the rooftop looks functional (there aren't loose bricks or dilapidated wood though the door creaks a bit loud) even after years' worth of non-visits.

Ichigo angles the 2-seater bench towards the city as well, the table is behind it. It's a good view, he makes sure. The city sprawls wide and quiet this hour, and the low to medium-rise buildings make for a good skyline - they're not very low, but not very obscuring either.

Ahead, the first light is starting to split the dark blue-lit sky, and there's something inexplicably anticipatory about it. Ichigo could feel his own heartbeat easing.

(it is not so much of a change of scene and schedule to him, once, he used to be up early - but those had been his childhood days when summer morning rains were nice and he woke up in golden light)

Ichigo thinks there's a lot more to do and he barely has time to ponder (and he really needs to get a new snow broom). Ichigo turns around and heads straight to the door, making a mental list of all his activities before classes resume.

Before leaving the rooftop, Ichigo checks again the lamps and the chairs and makes sure he has the rolled paper wedged on his back pocket, then the doors close behind him. It's going to be a long, busy day, he thinks, yet -

.

.

.

There's a feeling he can't quite repress, can't quite shake off, and it won't quite let go - it's pleasantly sloshing on the surface of his heart and it's surprisingly recognizable after a long time and it's something entirely reminiscent of his childhood days:

Ichigo feels today will be a good day.

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.

.

The sun rose silvery this morning, and there's something anticipatory about it, as if waiting to spill.

Rukia decides this year's winter comes even more pleasant than last year's.

Winters in Karakura have always been pleasant. There aren't big and heavy snowfalls - flowers and grass and snails - all wilted and dead and buried in meters of snow - no, no, no, winters in Karakura are light, the snow never reaching 3 inches, brightly-colored flowers push through the fresh snow on mornings, and the sky isn't gloomy gray but more like liquid silver during daytimes, and the snowfalls are mild at night. Rukia likes mild winters.

But even so, it is cold. So Rukia bundles herself in three different scarves and dons again her bright red trench coat - a powder blue dress underneath and a pair of boots, then goes down to the first floor.

Also, it is becoming a habit, to go to the kitchen first, to think of checking her potted herbs placed on the kitchen counter, wondering how they fared against the cold yet again.

On the way, she peers into Ichigo's workplace. It is clean. Not so much if to be compared to her family butlers' standard, but it is, at the least, tidy. His desks, which were filled with knick-knacks, and the fireplace once plugged with indeterminate stuff are now all empty.

For her part: his hallways are done, too, the boxes she put together are stacked in corners - but she found them gone, along with the lot Ichigo put together. She thought he must have removed all of them already.

(Rukia, somehow, feels ambivalent to the idea. She only means well, she doesn't mean to overstep boundaries and inadvertently influence his actions - Rukia decides to be careful around her words next time)

.

.

.

It turns out, the plastic bags Ichigo had yesterday were groceries and one of them contains a box of pre-mixed pancake recipe.

"For the lazy," Ichigo casually comments, passing over Rukia while she reads the back label of the box for suggested recipes. Her other hand rests upon a tray of half dozen eggs.

Ichigo goes to pour coffee beans in the coffee maker on the opposite counter. They are in the kitchen. Like every room in the house, it's an old-fashioned, shabby one, low-ceiling, made with wood and tiles and the walls have peeling, light blue accents - but everything in it is still functioning despite being outdated. Just that, Ichigo didn't bother to get a refrigerator.

It's 8 am, and the silver brilliance from the window gilts the entire room.

"For those who don't have time," Rukia corrects laughingly, in good humor,. "Then why did you buy...?" she asks, eyes still fixed on her pancake box recipe, not really expecting an answer.

"Ahh," Ichigo only answers and proceeds to add water and then prods the coffee maker to start brewing. Ichigo turns slowly around to face Rukia - who isn't facing him, he leans on the kitchen counter, puts his right hand inside his jean pocket, while the other taps the counter.

Ichigo stays like that for a long moment, quiet. The coffee maker whirrs behind him dully.

Rukia still, is reading the pancake mix box, as if committing the recipe onto her memory. Ichigo eyes her familiar red trench coat and the boots she partnered with it.

He vaguely remembers black cars, _very sleek_, and men in handsome suits, _goddamn expensive_, and her - how she lives up to her well-to-do name in appearances; an effortless head-turner - any day in the campus many, many months ago.

"You're awfully overdressed, aren't you?" Ichigo says quietly.

"Hn? What?" Rukia looks quizzically at him over her shoulder, still holding that pancake mix box, her winged eyebrows raised at him.

"You Kuchikis always dress like that? Even at home?" He continues. By comparison, he looks underdressed: he settles for a gray shirt, a black hoodie and likewise black pants today.

(he doesn't mean that, but it makes for a start of a morning talk)

Her mouth then forms a half-smirk upon realizing what he's on about, she turns to him fully this time, "aren't you one to talk? what's with the all-black get up yesterday - with matching black gloves, when after all, we just ended cleaning your house - that's very anticlimactic, don't you think?" She casually chides, her voice a bit rougher, crossing arms over her chest.

He drawls, "that was accidental."

"Still," Rukia insists smugly with a lopsided grin, and feels a win in a quip he started.

Ichigo breaks in another very slight grin while lightly shaking his head.

Rukia thinks Ichigo breaking grins at the rate of one per day isn't so much of a bad thing, he is already eye-catchingly good looking, lean and very tall - it is a welcoming change.

Another thing Rukia has noticed: she's seeing Ichigo more and more under the natural light nowadays. Today, he's off his eyeglasses, and his eyes carry a slight droop as if he's been awake since a few hours ago. She remembers the recent change in his waking schedule, and that must be it. His hair is still in orange disarray, longer, too. Nonetheless, his features still look sharp - he looks well.

Rukia looks well today, too. Though Ichigo doesn't go out of his way to compliment pretty girls, he's not oblivious to their existence - right when he's faced with one -

(in all truth, Ichigo - does not go for - has no need for girls' pretty faces or girls' affection or girls' delicate hearts or girls' admiration or girls' hopeful pining. He doesn't know what to do with them anyway; has no actual use for such attributes and abstractions; what will they occupy? His heart? His heart - he likes to believe - is a very small compartment with very limited capacity - it barely fits his half-dead, half-wish memories. To be sure, there is no space for youthful bullshit: compliments and hearts and affection and all)

\- _still_, there is no denying such girls exist.

Rukia is by no means average-looking, she is, from the words his classmates use, enviably pretty - graceful, traditional, and soft. Though she keeps herself simple, it's that particular, effortless finesse which draws attention to her - it's not acquired.

Considering his short time living with her, he could tell Rukia comes naturally with it. She's the kind people don't see everyday, Ichigo lingers on that thought for a minute-

\- until the coffee machine stops whirring behind him, and Rukia quietly resumes reading her pancake box recipe - she supposes that signals the end of their short quip.

Ichigo, before turning, reaches for his morning coffee mug, then hesitates and contemplates about getting a second mug.

He recalls their unspoken, complimentary routine in absence months ago that has come to stop a week earlier, the water-onigiri and coffee-muffin daily cycle. For a moment, Ichigo thinks how, just how this must feel different: the sun semi-high on the sky and actually sharing a table and having late breakfast together - Ichigo reaches for the second mug.

"Hey," he calls to her a minute after, looking at her over his shoulder. He's holding a teaspoon on one hand and a small jar of sugar cubes on another.

Ichigo asks her a long overdue question, "do you take sugar and milk?"

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.

.

Breakfast went past similarly: over old kitchen and mismatched chairs, over unequally shaped pancakes and sunny side-up eggs with broken yolks, over silverlight and two empty coffee mugs.

.

.

.

When the day reeled in more hours - midday, Ichigo continues to be busy: working about on his backyard, sweeping the thin layer of snow and moving things as if he's marking some spots.

Rukia happens to glance down at him from her open window while she makes inventory of her checked-off items on her study list.

He's wearing black headphones - the kind he wears when he's coding and when's riding the bus - the kind he wears when he's seriously in deep thought about something.

She remembers Ichigo telling her in passing he'll be busy today, "shit to observe," he had said, and added, "classes will start soon so I should."

Curious, Rukia decides to come down.

.

.

.

"You want to help?"

"If there is something...yes," Rukia appears, a striking red figure against the white-covered hill, and frosted trees and shrubs.

She did not stutter, she would like to help. He didn't shoo her away, though, that's a good sign.

Ichigo settles his black headphones around his neck, glances at her - both of his eyebrows are raised - then he gestures to the expanse of his backyard - it covers a lot. After all, he lives on a solitary house on a hill, its wrought-iron gates reach far.

Rukia shrugs, the snow did reach 2 inches but she did not wear boots for nothing, "yes, of course." Her eyes bright and round. She, for a moment, appears eager (and younger).

"If that's…" Ichigo grumbles, "if this is fine...then I'll leave this to you."

He hands her a red snow broom, "just clear that rectangular part I marked," he points to a space with standing objects on four points, it is closer, within his gates, "I need its measurements, I can do that after. And the shed's over there, if you need tools or whatever."

Rukia puts her hair up in a messy bun - a lone bang remains stubborn however - before accepting the broom. Rukia is glad for the little thing she could contribute, she nods up at him (she tries not to look too eager).

Because Ichigo isn't the type to linger, "if that's that, then I'll go, I need to pick-up something quickly," he says, pulling his hood over his head, "I'll get us lunch, too. Don't bother with the store down at the bus stop, they are closed until tomorrow noon - all are."

"Don't trip over pebbles," Ichigo reminds her just as he turns.

_Pushing_, he adds wryly, "and if you can't reach something, if you need to put some things in overhead cabinets or shelves you can't reach, don't. Wait for me instead, don't stand on stool - you have very short legs, and I don't want accidents this early."

"Yes, I - _what_?" but Rukia has not been quick about the jab on her height.

(because it is unexpected)

"What did you say?" She says, and her voice is slightly raised - a departure from the usually quiet and polite Kuchiki girl.

But he's already past the gate. He only raised a hand in recognition, a sharp jerk - as if saying see you later.

Rukia ends up watching him amble off, turns a corner, then disappears to the downward road until she can't see him anymore, then she marches to that marked space he told her to clear.

_That guy really_ -

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.

.

Ichigo returned after an hour and a half, clutching a 3-tier square red and black box and two packs of flavored mochi.

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.

.

(Rukia figured - discovered - that Ichigo is the kind to adhere to such traditional courtesies as she watched him tuck the box on the corner of his kitchen.

How unlikely, she mused. She would associate the discovery with a certain level of fondness, but she remembered Ichigo told her she has very short legs)

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.

.

Ichigo bought lunch for them: Japanese take-outs from the only store still open.

It had been a late lunch, it was a quarter past 2 pm when Ichigo sauntered onto the front steps of his house.

Rukia had been dozing off, seating on the front steps and lightly leaning onto one column. Rukia did not mean to look as if, _well_, to look as if she was waiting for him. She only meant to label her flower pots and the front steps had good lighting, but something else must have caught her attention, and the winter wind must have been lulling her, and she must forgotten where her markers went, and it was a really quiet afternoon, too - she can't remember much.

When she woke, Ichigo was already sitting two steps down from her. He peered at her cautiously (as if waiting for her to react about his comment about her short legs - she did not) before handing her a pair of stainless chopsticks and a take-out box without a word. It was very warm on her hands and she could smell ginger and sesame oil and chives and something sweet.

Rukia and Ichigo sat on the steps outside and quietly ate stir-fried soba for lunch, both idly observing the frosty afternoon, it lightly snowed, too - albeit only for minutes.

Rukia offered to pay for the take-outs afterwards, "this is too much of a bother, I can just-" she ended up saying, but he didn't accept, he said "no" and that was a firm refusal.

But Rukia was so insistent that Ichigo hurriedly walked out to check on her snow-clearing effort to avoid her shoving the money to him.

(Rukia thought he was okay with her handiwork because he didn't glare at her when he re-entered to get a pen)

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.

.

Rukia peers at Ichigo from the kitchen windows, putting away two pairs of stainless chopsticks: outside, Ichigo carefully measures the rectangular area then jots the numbers down to a piece of paper.

Actually, along with refrigerator and dishwasher, Ichigo doesn't own a television - not that Rukia would ever think he's the type to watch drama romance shows or sports exclusives or petty game shows. Ichigo regards such things with resentment. He certainly won't be watching (streaming) a musical game show tonight even if it's part of tradition, she's sure.

Ichigo is pretty much offended by anything with heart-sickeningly sweetness or anything that isn't a classic. She remembers the disgusted looks he keeps flinging her romance books and shoujo manga like they are diseased and that, sometimes, she does let her books get _in contact_ with his books and leaves them there for him to see just to annoy him. Small victories, they are.

What he likes, she supposes, is to look at news - world news in English, he follows general things, he doesn't appear to be interested on the blackout ones, he knows some things about NASDAQ and NYSE because he lectures her about them when he's feeling didactic, or an article about coffee-brewing technique using hot sands in Turkey and Greece, or comparing the best lamps available in various online shopping sites, but mostly he reads tech news and comparative literary reviews on old books, and he stews in online documentaries for hours end, too.

_How very boring_, his fangirls must feel if they knew, _it doesn't suit the handsome university soccer star who descended from an awesome samurai line and a German power family_, they must think.

But Rukia quietly likes that about him - and so she safekeeps the thought.

(and that she should safekeep her romance shoujo manga as well - if she doesn't want them thrown out)

.

.

.

Ichigo is shaking off snow from his jacket and his hair as well when he re-enters his house. There are three looped sets of electrical cord dangling from his left shoulder and arm.

He's got in his pocket the paper with his marked measurements. That's fifth down, it's time now to move his activities up on the rooftop.

It's almost 4 pm and his surroundings grow a bit dimmer.

Ichigo thinks he's all right with his own-set schedule. He has put the boxes into shed, moved the chairs and tables up on the rooftop, cleared his front yard off snow - with help from Rukia, picked-up their _jubako_, got his measurements, he only needs to connect the lamps into an electrical cord and - and, Ichigo thinks, that'd be everything.

Before stepping climbing the staircase, briefly, he glances to the direction of his kitchen and the storage room beside it. Ichigo sees Rukia's shadow stretching onto the wooden floor, spilling from the door of the storage room. He hears audible thump of pots and he figures Rukia must be fiddling with something. He lets her be.

.

.

.

It's late in afternoon when Rukia finally learns why Ichigo was so busy measuring and moving out about on his backyard despite the weather and the hour - that and some other things.

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.

.

Ichigo said he found something interesting from his clutters.

From all the mountain-loads of his stuff, an old thing "just turned up from shit," he tells her unceremoniously, plopping himself down opposite her and arching his eyebrows at her choice of activity.

Rukia looks at him, surprised. They are, once more, in the kitchen. Rukia has her notes spread on the table along with some English translation of Li Po's poetry, she wants to get some studies done before classes resume in two days.

Ichigo carries a rolled, long paper - the one he saved from going to the shed a few hours earlier - has splotches of different colors, and is stiff, yellowed, and cracking at the edges.

Rukia, at the hour, has removed her red trenchcoat and draped it on her chair. She's wearing a powder blue dress underneath and has traded her boots for a pair of white house slippers. Her hair still in a messy bun.

She keeps herself warm through a pot of tomato tea beside her notes and books; her teacup functions well as a hand-warmer.

"I don't know," Ichigo says, slowly, tentatively, "it might interest you."

Rukia unconsciously puts her pen down and folds her notebook to make way for whatever he wants to show her.

Ichigo takes out the rolled paper and shows Rukia a detailed, professional-looking blueprint of a-

"Greenhouse?"

"Yeah," he shrugs, spreading the print on the table taking out some of her notebooks as paper weights to keep the blueprint from folding.

"Oh? You want to build one?" Rukia asks, thinking about his peculiar timing.

She takes a look at the print, the structure is square, single-floor and...well, that's much about what she could tell. She can't really read professionally-designed prints or even plates made by students. It's a surprise, really -

_Then_ -

"Mom's an architect."

Rukia meets his eyes briefly. _Ahh_, she ponders, her heart suddenly coming across something imperceptible - a strange, mellow feeling, perhaps.

She thinks, this is a first time.

There are things unsaid between them, things she dare not ask (like when she dared not look at the flipped photographs).

Rukia, despite opting not to look at the framed photos, remembers one image that hang prominently within a room on the second floor - on second thought, it's actually a poster and is probably the reason why it remains there, not putaway like the other photographs. It was a fleeting view, Rukia did not mean to, she would not, it had only been accidental, but she clearly remembers a beautiful woman.

"I see," Rukia starts carefully, her voice quiet, "was she the architect…?" she gestures to the entirety of the house.

Ichigo is looking at her intently when she glances up, and she is briefly reminded how his eyes aren't simply brown, but clear amber.

_Yes_, his eyes seem to say.

This isn't a slip then, Rukia realizes, Ichigo deliberately shared something about himself.

Rukia is not sure what to say next, so she doesn't say anything. It could be damaging otherwise. They retreat back in silence - it's safer that way. She wonders then if this is his only purpose of showing the blueprint to her.

"I want to finish it," he offers, for a guy with so very few words, this is almost a grand explanation. Rukia listens, "I almost forgot about it, we've been meaning to complete everything, I mean - before."

Ichigo runs his right hand over his hair - this is the first time she's seen him do that up close. He does that on his soccer practice and matches too, and his fangirls swoon. True enough, it's arresting and did distract her for a second, and if as close as this, his fangirls would die on the spot.

-but only for a second because Rukia recovers and smiles lightly at his words, "you should," she tells him sincerely - increasingly becoming aware of this swelling, mellow-turned-whimsical feeling inside her chest.

(the incomplete thoughts and the meaning of "we" and "before" in his words, however, did not go unnoticed)

"_And about that-_" Ichigo starts, something has changed though - Rukia notices creases appear on his forehead. There's an undertone of something severe, like a tragic secret, in his voice.

"I want to clarify some things, I...I should have done this shit before, so, uhh, sorry 'bout this," he fumbles.

Rukia understands, he's been building up to this - so she waits.

"I suppose you have questions," Ichigo tells her finally, his voice turns very quiet and very serious, and he's looking at her straight.

_Ahh,_ Rukia thinks he wants her full attention and honesty, "my family, some other stuff..." he trails and he points to a spot on the blueprint.

Rukia doesn't need an artificial light to make out the name. Past Ichigo, outside the window, she sees the sun is still above the horizon, but barely, still, it casts him a honeyed glow.

The greenhouse blueprint lays on the table, it has a tiny _Kurosaki Masaki_ written neatly on the lower side. That, and she remembers old stethoscope and pink sofa and faded soccer posters.

Last night, as Rukia recalls with some degree of guilt, despite respecting his privacy, she wondered if a simple internet search would yield something about his family...some news clippings, to know something to quell the curiosity - surely, it wouldn't be the same case as hers where all sources are heavily blocked. But that had been the end of it because she did not do a search run on his family name, and promised to never engage the thought again.

"You've seen it…? Yesterday, about the clutters, the second floor-? I mean that stupid poster, I forgot to remove it. You know, it was my dad's idea - he's a goddamn crazy goat, I didn't-" Ichigo pauses, realizing he must have said too much, pulls back, then decides to focus on his first question.

Ichigo takes a breath, "you've seen my mother's...?"

"Yes," Rukia answers, and she feels something inside her drops. (because she doesn't want to be untruthful, not to Ichigo)

"Hnn," Ichigo stills then visibly relaxes, sagging onto his chair. He deliberates for a moment, then scratches his head once more.

He waits for her to ask questions. When she remains quietly blinking at him - her eyes soft, he tells her as casually as he could, "well, you're bound to ask questions so I, well, I can..."

"_I'm not,_" Rukia counters firmly, though she still isn't so sure as to how to approach this entirely, she knows this is important to him. Carefully deciding on what words to use, she clarifies, "you should know, I do have questions, Ichigo, but…" she trails but feels her heart brave a little, "...it's not my place to ask."

It must have some sort of impact, because it startles Ichigo, and she sees a flicker of something on his face, and his eyes are alight - she couldn't tell exactly.

"I don't even have to know...if you don't want to, I…think you shouldn't feel pressured about telling me if you're uncomfortable," Rukia continues, lightly shrugging, but nothing to suggest she is insincere, "It's alright, Ichigo."

Rukia's voice is a note higher than usual - Ichigo did not miss. Another thing he did not miss: she positively brims with sincerity.

Rukia takes tentative sips of her tomato tea and stares at the greenhouse blueprint before remembering to fold it and place it carefully at the side.

Being a guest (arguably) Rukia knows her first priority is to uphold all things that matter to Ichigo - months of knowing him tell her its privacy. More than being polite, it is the best she could do after all his kind gestures toward her.

In all truth, Rukia is satisfied with the languid pace their (hopefully) friendship has taken. It is an unusual acquaintanceship, a strange set-up, _but_ she wakes up everyday learning something new about him, it is more meaningful that way, and it is enough.

(but she would like to do more for him than he does for her - in all truth as well)

It is not out of disinterest or indifference, that's clear to Ichigo. Kuchiki is terribly mindful of her actions - no doubt it is something to do with her name. He has never met someone so deviant, so perverse to commonplace reactions. People - _girls_ \- will usually flock to shred parts of his life if given the chance, Kuchiki, on the other hand, lightly threads and makes no demand.

Ichigo is compelled to look at her more closely and think: where to begin?

Ichigo recalls seeing her sitting on that bus stop at midnight, wearing a white dress and fists balled and defeated and alone - it is a distant memory, it is past, but it plays well and detailed on his mind.

Kuchiki may very well hide it, but he knows that look because it's a distant memory he's more than familiar with - _shared_. It's a look he once wore, too.

(while that may be the case, he cannot pretend to know her demons)

They are silent for a few heartbeats. Ichigo suddenly says, "_no_." He thinks, _it's alright_, echoing her words. Remembering how she has already claimed a part of his home and how she has earned it and how the past shared months and quiet talks had been. Rukia, _then and now_, who is careful and probably has fiery side and threads lightly and makes no demand, is a friend. His heart then remembers how to be open - _it had been a long time_.

Ichigo settles with the thought. "I'll give you something," he tells her quietly then leaves, something in his voice tells her to remain.

Rukia looks up at him. "Oh?" She watches him clumsily slid off his chair. Rukia supposes it's the same: he never asked her, he had been very accepting of her without question, he had been kind.

.

.

.

From his desk, Ichigo fishes out old newspaper clippings, stacked and bounded by a red thick string.

_It had been long a time -_

_._

.

.

The sun has set already, the sky once more is returning to its seeping blueness - it's 6 pm and there's something whimsical and nostalgic about watching the final night unfold.

It's around this time when Ichigo returns to the kitchen holding a thin stack of newspapers. Rukia tears away from the window to see him stand there, she stands too - an automatic response, and close in two steps. Then wordlessly, Ichigo offers the clippings to Rukia.

Rukia knows Ichigo lacks eloquence. His words, however short and concise, are not always complete, not always full. His actions are better speakers; they have better articulateness. So she thinks of the way he's offering the papers to her as if saying: _here I am._

Rukia reaches for the offered papers. Accepting.

* * *

_part 1 - end_

a/n: i'm gonna have to stop at 5k for part 1, there's a lot to absorb and i may have lost my coherence somewhere.

also, pls don't hurt my feelings, i like tomato tea *remembers people hating hard on green banana* (◕︿◕✿)

ch9:

i followed you on tumblr, hopelessromantic, i'm tomato. (つ・▽・)つ⊂(・▽・⊂) haha duchess? no, no, no, if you meet me irl, you'll see me wearing a sundress and old booties and a satchel bag regardless of the weather and i look lost - that's, uhh, i'm not very regal. i think i know what you mean though and i don't think i deserve as much but thank you. also, you wrote:

"lol. it sounds weird when you write filipino."

ah, talaga? parang ganito? hmm, mas gusto ko na tuloy mag-fil sa a/n dahil dyan.

guest, who reviewed in my language, thank you but you credit me too much. i can tell you i am made from everything. i have lots of favorite people - they influenced me.

angie, i always see you here, thank you. marii, and guest and guest and guest, thank you so much.

ch10:

no gin, this isn't only about his sad life, i'm just a slow-burn. ｢(ﾟﾍﾟ)

anon and guest, i think this is your answer.

i should have been retired long ago, yesmin, but i can't leave without finishing something. thank you, and ahh, side-topic, my top 3 favorite i/r ff are never finished. serendipity (violetiris) is missing its epilogue, heart's desire (cleshay ) is only halfway, and indefinitely (jaderent) is indefinitely on hiatus. these are circa 2007/08 fics.

at bs20, nas19, lilith3

are you here, shirayuki992? it's ok i'm not annoyed. （‐＾▽＾‐）nas in the coming days/weeks is likely. i just have to wrestle with 2 more story updates, and thank you.


	12. pathological lover of days 2

ej, i wrote that already and i favor cues and subtlety and chekhov's gun, and thank you. thank you gin, and i understand if u think slow-burn sucks. angie and han-ichiruki, thank you so much! guest, u r too sweet, thank you. hopelessromantic, pm n lng mmy kc nphb, slmt!guest and guest (yesmin - is this u?) - thanks so much.

i broke the flow and ruined sequences and lost detail-significance last ch. i shouldn't have updated in 2 parts - very, very wrong - but i couldn't take it back so fml. konbu symbolizes joy. as much as i'd like to see them together, i'm negative 'bout that cover. i will reply to the rest of signed reviews and pm/s when i'm awake - am totally not awake. i re-wrote pt.1's last scene because i want - it's here.

rent

11\. pathological lover of days

_part 2_

by appleschan

* * *

What is to do after that?

After quietly thanking Ichigo, Rukia folded her notes and papers, and retreated back to her room, taking with her the newspaper clippings he offered her.

(Ichigo nodded at her, his face was half-dimmed by the incoming night time. "_Yeah_..." he had said quietly, and a different somber and earnest feeling had settled on them before she excused herself)

It was another first time, Rukia muses, an afterthought.

Rukia closes the double doors behind her, and carefully place her study materials on an adjacent table with lamps. She keeps holding the newspaper clippings that bore half of his life.

Ichigo has given her a room with too much space. Her bed is situated at the center, and various study tables and chairs and other old-worn bedroom furniture - a rustic globe, bookcases, an old vanity table- surround it.

Rukia recalls, feeling something akin to embarrassment, Ichigo had asked her first if she was suicidal upon her arrival and that he didn't want to explain a dead body that fell from his house. She found it was because of the windows on her room, they all stretch wide and high and open.

(she isn't suicidal, she told him, but she does like high places and is nonetheless appreciative of her room)

Rukia owns little now, but certainly not lacking in anything - and that reminds her how most of the fixtures in her observatory-room were borrowed and where they came from.

Rukia finds place at an old, patched cleopatra sofa - placed in front of the largest open window in her room - and unbounds the newspaper clippings in silence and then goes to read the more than a decade news clippings. The window provides for a dark blue, soft glow.

What is to feel after that?

Rukia is clutching the clippings. There is reminiscence of her own, vaguely bubbling on the surface of her consciousness. She's familiar with the heartbreak.

She thinks of the headlines, sharply-worded lines, brutally specific descriptions - how a family for generations, deeply-rooted into Karakura, truly from a noble line, is survived by its male firstborn, 10-year old and bright haired, how a year made him an orphan with only distant relatives from another town to rely on.

How the mother, with astonishing foreign roots, beautiful, skilled architect, was killed while walking along a riverbank by a visiting blood relative. The bright-haired, 10-year old boy had been with her - the paper emphasized: _boy sees mother stabbed to death_, and it had been raining.

How the family, a year after the mother's death, perished on a trip to her grave, an accident with a single survivor. The news covered as much as it could: there are more details, the ages and the names of the members, there's a copy of a carefully-prepared obituary for the local doctor and notes explaining it joined the obituary for the architect mother in the community archives. The entire academy and preschool where the children attend designated a whole day-off in commiseration.

How the relatives from a distant family branch by ancestral marriage, another one from a noble line, came to the boy to offer guardianship: a freewheeling pair, a blond, obscure male scientist who insisted he wasn't married to his companion, a dark-skinned woman whose profession wasn't specified - both of whom the papers didn't name. The boy declined and opted to remain in social care until he is old enough. He had been, after all, left with a fortune and a house to look after.

How the following commentaries from local authorities and op-ed pieces and follow-up reports echoed the same tune: the boy was unfortunately forced to grow up too soon.

_What is to feel after that_?

What is to feel after that when her own memories mirror his? Rukia thinks reminders are painful. It had not been a year, but it is close. She's reminded of blackout funeral processions disguised as railroad work closure to keep the public out. The ashes of all thirty members of a high-profile clan including children of branch families in black cars each, the clan head's car led the procession.

She remembers the banned media coverage, strictly-enforced journalists' silence, government-handed intervention - it would not do good for a news about a massacre of a high-powered family holding key stakes in the economy to get out.

There's a will read in secret, of her own disadvantaged solutions and arrangements because of her adoption, how officials involved in investigations reasoned it was simply financially motivated -

Rukia is reminded of her family driver saying good luck to her on a bus stop - how Ichigo was sitting on the same bus stop on the same night.

Rukia tries to focus, shakes her head lightly and looks at the headlines and thinks of the similarities, but this isn't about her - for now, _for now_, she thinks of Ichigo first.

(but this is no reflection of her inability to confront past. Everything - everyone - must come first before she thinks of herself. It is simply that way)

Ichigo, _Ichigo _had been young. One cannot promise a person everything will be alright, because sometimes it won't be. Ichigo, Rukia realizes, must have been forced to learn the reality of such promise at a young age.

She remembers seeing Ichigo first, it was not in their classroom where they stay for their shared literature class or something grand and dramatic like the opening of an adventure story or memorable like in shoujo manga she likes to read. It was a casual pass, a brief glance when she sees his bright head. He had been quietly waiting in line for the scheduled bus - his hair was too peculiar to not be noticed after all. Then she settled on her place at the backseat as her chauffeur drives - Ichigo was first remarkable that way. That's how she saw him first.

(however, she did not remember his name when it was first mentioned, and she's sure neither did he)

Then the rumours built him: he's moody and gloomy and deeply unfriendly and depressingly talented. It's not arguable if he's the most popular guy in the university, because he is. That's how she knew him first. But: Ichigo, who is tall and good-looking and scowling, is startlingly kindhearted. That's how she knew him truly.

Rukia stares at the top paper's headline and thinks, it's all ink and words now. After everything, Ichigo chose to keep on moving, because what else is there to do, and he turned out alright - a good person.

(she admires that about him, too)

Still, Rukia does not marvel at the similarities they share. It isn't as if she now has something to brag about, it isn't as if she feels important for knowing such thing about his life, _it's_, it's just that, it's just a simple gesture of openness.

Rukia understands him more now and she is happy he feels comfortable around her to reveal parts of his life. It is, perhaps, just enough.

.

.

.

In the end, Rukia has kept the newspaper clippings on a box appropriate to its size. She puts it inside her drawer, the one to the left, where her hand instinctively goes.

Ichigo has, Rukia realizes, given her something so valuable: she arranges for it to be safekept quietly in her heart - any lesser place would have been unworthy.

Rukia thinks then: how difficult and how big of a task it could be, to thank him.

.

.

.

Ichigo is doing a quick check on his rooftop.

All the seven, colored horrendously in apple green, campsite lamps are working properly. He puts them at various places on his rooftop: left two on the table, one on the circular table, and the rest he puts on the floor beside the benches.

He moved the chairs and tables this early morning but it did snow around afternoon, so he takes to a bit of snow dusting, just on places where there will be movements and on top of surfaces and chairs as well.

It's half past 9 pm now, and the dim night turns darker. Still, it's too early, he thinks, walking over towards the bench and making sure it has a good view of the Karakura tower from afar.

Despite all the preparation he's made, the chairs he's moved and the stuff he's picked-out, Ichigo still does not - still isn't - very sure if _this _will work out fine.

Many years he lets past while he's in his workroom, doing codes or watching some documentary or just plainly sleeping.

But there's something about old traditions and something about doing them _again _with someone after a long time, perhaps, too long - _this _will be the first after more than a decade.

(somewhere deeper: there's something about doing them with someone he's comfortable with)

When his last-minute check is done, he walks towards the door, briefly glancing at the opposite direction where her observatory-bedroom is and wonders if she could see him - or notice his movements since early this morning.

He hasn't told her anything yet, but she's bound to figure something out somehow- if she hasn't already. Kuchiki is too observant, too dedicated and too big of an academic to miss a detail.

Seeing the lights are out on her room, Ichigo proceeds to exit, letting the lamps spill a soft glow on his rooftop.

(_it had been a long time_)

.

.

.

At 10pm, he has changed into a new set of clothes after a warm shower, still black though, but his hoodie is gray - so that must count for something.

He goes on prowl to find her after.

.

.

.

There is something she must do first.

She settles on his library, deeming it to be suitable and conducive, after all, his doorless library became the first place where she felt comfortable: that sunny day when he allowed her to place a slashed-price tulips on the table in front of the lone window - that up to this day, is being replaced consistently by her or him when he comes across them slowly withering.

She brought a plate of sliced cold apples and purple plums, and a filled to the brim mug - printed with a cursive _dissonance _\- of tomato tea - all as light dinner, then sits on her lilac chair.

She nibbles on the last piece of apple slice while looking absently at the lone window. It's almost half past 10pm, the outline of the lit Karakura tower and its city buildings and some houses are visible.

She thinks he must have been too busy to notice dinner. In an hour, she resolves, she'll come up to ask if he's alright.

She could see from her room the on-and-off glow coming from the rooftop since dusk set. He has been, for most of the time after their talk, upstairs on the rooftop and testing the lamps he placed since this early morning.

(knowing the date and time of the year and the 3-tier _jubako _box, of course she knows what he's up to, still, she doesn't feel the need to inquire; similarly to when he's working on the ground for his greenhouse measurements, she lets him go about his work on the rooftop undisturbed)

Setting aside the now-empty plate and tea mug beside his books down on the floor, she takes out a pen and props open an old journal she owns, the worn-out pages reveal a still-crisp white, blank stationery wedged between them, then she re-positions herself on the chair.

.

.

.

Because she limits herself to some parts of his house - and he knows all these locations, it's easy to locate her not more than 5 minutes after coming down.

He settles on the doorframe of his library, looking to see if he's intruding on something.

One standing lamp spills honeyed light onto the room, the lone window is open. He could barely see her silhouette, but he could sense she is comfortably tucked on her large, lilac reading chair.

He could see from his position, a butter yellow, thick blanket is covering her, flowing out, spilling down on the wooden floor. Like always, like her customary way of sitting, she is leaning on her left, where the sun specifically shines during days. She is using the armrest as a writing surface.

She is scribbling on something - on some kind of white square paper he couldn't see very well.

He once glances at his wristwatch, he is mindful of the hour.

.

.

.

"_Rukia_," he calls from the library door frame not long after.

Startled, she turns to look his way from her seat- but he's not looking at her straight. The light coming from the library is low, and it dapples him little.

He stands sideways by the doorframe, she could see a hand in his pocket, and the other resting on his neck - she recognizes this stance, not often does he look bashful about something, his shoulders drawn together - almost never.

He is quiet but she heard him clearly, and she doesn't quite know how to take that: _Rukia_, he has said.

She blinks at him, and he stands there quiet and tall, carefully picking his next words.

According to her heart - which was quiet for too long for it had been a long time since it talked to her on anything: _Rukia_, he has finally said, _and it feels like the first of many_.

Rukia stands and seals her paper in an envelope. She remembers that feeling upon waking up this morning, something anticipatory, something as if waiting to spill. So she says, as natural and as easily, "Ichigo?"

"Are you, I mean I know it's a short notice, but are you," Ichigo starts but hesitates for a moment. There's something deeply troubling about this, about stringing words together mentally and actually saying them and waiting for the reactionary.

He's 22 already, he's old, old, old. It's not like middle school - it's _not _middle school anymore, he's nearing college graduation, it's not like he's asking a pretty girl for a date for the first time -

"...planning on doing anything else tonight?"

\- _it's really, really not like that_.

.

.

.

.

.

.

(somewhere, between two lungs,

a heart beats)

.

.

.

.

.

.

Tonight, there is no strange, eventful alignment of stars and planets. Andromeda is billion years away from collision, there really is no reason to climb rooftops and stay there and watch the sky - it has not cracked, there is no remarkable passing of a rare star, there is no grand spectacle to witness, only it is -

"_New Year_," Rukia breathes, stepping onto the rooftop. As quickly, her heart eases as the chilly wind blows in. Ichigo follows.

From this side, the entire snow-covered hill and the frosty white trees and shrubs have a slightly stranger feel to it at night. Rukia reaches for the rooftop railings, frosty and black. Perhaps, it is the desolation that keeps the place as it is. Magicked. Other-worldly. Like out of some fantasy book. This side of earth sky - she looks up fondly - flares with a mix of dark blue and icy blue, stars _do _swirl at this side - from wherever galaxy they belong.

It is gently snowing, too, not unusual for a winter night but surprisingly not very bothersome for a New Year's night. After all, Rukia likes mild winters.

One snowflake, perhaps too large for its kind, settles on the tip of her nose, she stares at it for a moment, having to cross her eyes to get a good look, and decides she likes the shape.

"I'm not sleepy, is why," Ichigo answers to an unasked question, settles himself beside her but not too close and places one hand on the rail, feeling the winter wind mildly pass him. His head is slightly inclined to her, quietly watching her swipe the snowflake carefully off her nose and preserving its shape.

Before coming up with Rukia, he has gone to fetch the _osechi_, the 3-tier, traditional _jubako _variety food box he's gone to pick up earlier and a few drinks, just in case one of them feels like eating, and made a quick detour to his room to fetch a fur-edged, black coat while she goes to retrieve her bright red trench coat draped on one of the chairs from the kitchen.

"Ah," Rukia says in acknowledgement, _that's good to know_. She cleanly puts the snowflake on her forefinger and observes it in eye level. Ichigo continues to watch her.

Past her finger, ahead where the city is preparing for the year end, the sky carries a smokey layer - in great contrast to the sky overhead them, differently colored lights blot the night sky - they go around in circles in tune with with some indeterminate music. The Karakura tower - outlined with lights - has a digital countdown timer - all visible from where they stand.

Fireworks display isn't traditional in medium cities like Karakura, instead, the majority would visit the shrine - _hatsumode _\- and exchange cards and engage in some other _firsts _in welcoming the change of year.

How unusual, Rukia thinks, glancing at the erratic neon greens and blues and reds and yellows dotting the sky far ahead, for Ichigo to be interested in watching such activities. But then, it'll be _mightily _unusual if he decides to _actually _come to the city, and _actually _dance and _actually _drink alcohol and that's something she would probably spend money to see -

"I figured I'd do something different this year end," he offers, as if sensing her inquiry, then grins lightly before turning his gaze onto the city.

Different, he means, actually different from sleeping or watching documentaries or doing codes while various new years passed - all of which he perfected in all 12 years he lived alone and partly.

Behind them, Rukia could see Ichigo really did spend effort. The chairs and tables are arranged towards the city - all those bangings she heard this early morning. The _osechi, _a traditional new year food variety box_, _is put on top of the table - in case, and some purple canned drinks, some mochi packs, and some bottles - _sake _\- are there as well. And the campsite lamps cast about a different glow on the rooftop, something warmer and golden.

Rukia spares him a look, longer this time, the snowflake is slowly disintegrating on her forefinger, giving in to the mild wind. It's as if a warm flame settles on her, it's just nice to see him out here taking interest on trivial, simple, normal matters like New Year.

She tries then: "Ichigo, you won't mind if we watch _kohaku_?" Rukia inquires, getting his attention from the city, and taking out her phone.

"We still have 20 minutes of runtime if we tune in now," she continues, there's an emphasis on "we" but still carrying that unique elegance even as she talks of some pop-sy, musical television show airing religiously during new years. She turns to the digital countdown, there are some thirty minutes left before the year ends.

"Why the fuck would you even watch that?" Ichigo tells her lowly and grouchy, his orange hair is tousled lightly by the wind - he arches an eyebrow at her.

Rukia thinks it's a unique trait, to convey deep-seated annoyance so quietly and so sincerely and so thoroughly. Nevertheless, her lips curl to form a little smirk, she explains, "Well, it's tradition, and I just want to know who'd win this year, I'm really all for the White Team. The Red Team won last year, I was upset but my friend wasn't - it must be the hair color -"

"Hell no," Ichigo interrupts flatly.

"I'd be interesting, don't you want to see?" Rukia pushes, "and more importantly, there is this special number I'm really looking forward to see, they'll be performing before result announcement."

"No, just no," Ichigo affirms, internally questioning her tastes, and turns back to the city.

(there is a quiet and a bit disheartening "oh, alright" in the background)

Ichigo thought she'd be old, classic-type, _operatic_, Chopin _booming _loudly from her headphones like he was an 80's rock star, a Tchaikovsky-fanatic who knows a decent stretch of Rachmaninoff as well, yeah, someone old and boring like that - then he remembers the kind of manga and English books she reads, Ichigo resists an exasperated sigh.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Rukia pockets her phone, and drums her fingers on the railing, looking quite dejected.

Ichigo gives in after a moment, "whatever," he says dismissively, glancing at his wristwatch, nudging Rukia.

She looks up at him. "Fine," he mouths and walks over to the bench. He could endure perhaps, some 20 minutes of ear-torture.

A while later, Rukia is sitting on the bench whereas Ichigo is sitting on the table and has his feet propped on the bench, both are connected by her earphone set - of which he grudgingly accepted. Ichigo is awkwardly leaning down to try not to pull too much on her earphone cord connected to her phone where the song festival show is streaming.

Some performers on the screen are dressed as white, cutesy bunnies performing heavy metal. At loss for words, he says, "what the…? _This _is the performance you want to see…?"

She, meanwhile, snorts at him for not appreciating the show and dissing the Bunnymetal band. "It's fun once you get into it, really, they are popular idols, you know."

"No." So he just scowls the other way, squints to see the digital timer every two minutes, but occasionally glances at her.

He refuses to look at Rukia's phone screen for more than 3 seconds after that, but he continues to listen (tolerate) the cutesy, heavy metal-pop song fusion anyway.

With nothing to do than wait and let his companion engage in her taste, Ichigo reaches out for the _osechi _and slides the lid off slightly and fishes out a _konbu _wrap - seaweed - then takes 2 soda cans, and a pack of mochi.

Ichigo flicks the _konbu _into his mouthand then tears open the mochi pack. Rukia, it seems, could not be bothered, so he eats the plump, chocolate-flavored rice cakes.

With some 10 minutes onto the show and some 20 minutes before new year and noticing her weird band has stopped performing, "oi," Ichigo hands her a purple soda can.

She stares at the grape-flavored _Bubble Man_ soda. She lets out a little laugh, she's not very fond of the flavor - it is too sweet, still, "Ahh, that's - well, thank you," Rukia says, and takes the soda can and a piece of pink mochi.

(it must be her eyes, the color - people often thought she likes all things purple)

"W-at? You don't like grape? Heh, 'tis not available in melon or whatever girly flavors there are, just so you know," Ichigo tells her, shrugging, nonchalantly apologetic - if that's a possible reaction, "so deal with it."

"It's fine," she nods, but noticing the expiry date, _010117_, "oh, this will expire tomorrow-"

Ichigo glances once, then shrugs, "technically, it will expire in less than 10 minutes," he says, pointing to the faraway digital timer, "so you better start drinking now, unless..." and pops open his own nearly-expired soda nonetheless, then gulps as if pointedly challenging her and her dainty and sensitive upbringing.

They are still connected by her earphone cord, and a host starts with the _kohaku _result announcement - they could both hear, but Rukia detects the challenge in his voice and feels this takes precedence over her eternally-favored White Team winning.

"_Of course_," she emphasizes then opens her own can whilst not taking her eyes off Ichigo - who's lightly smirking down at her - then drinks.

Ichigo laughs a bit, approvingly. It's a lopsided laugh, arresting and cutting and boyish, "I guess you aren't too uptight, then," he offers her his chocolate mochi pack.

"_Of course_," Rukia repeats and gets one, "- thank you."

"If you get sick, though, I dunno, with poisoning or salmonella or whatever, it's entirely on you," he chides, laughingly, "don't bring me with the medical report, I won't be responsible."

"I'll have you know, canned sodas are considered relatively safe for 6 months after, and I wasn't really worried." She did not notice _Kohaku _just ended, the phone is still on her hands but forgotten completely.

"Bullshit."

"It's true!" Rukia frowns up at him, before biting onto the chewy mochi.

Ichigo just looks down at her, and shakes his head. For the second time tonight, he's at loss, so he settles on "..._idiot_."

She lets that slide - knowing he doesn't meant that. Some time, Rukia promises with a vengeance, she'll get back at him.

Then the two are silent for some time after that short verbal spar, quietly nibbling on mochi and _konbu _and drinking nearly-expired grape soda.

Ichigo briefly glances at the digital timer, there is less than 5 minutes before New Year.

Glancing back, he sees her looking at the same timer.

Unlike him who is sitting on the table with feet perched on the bench, looking terribly classless and thug-like, Rukia is poised, elegant in bright red, situated on his old bench on his rooftop - she's still very much Kuchiki, through and through.

(he, after all, has come to know her first that way. But the cost has been this: at the university, she is _Kuchiki _first, then that _heiress_, then very seldom, just _Rukia_)

"Rukia," Ichigo takes a more serious tone and trails to find words - he remembers something, "next week, we will have separate lectures. I don't think our schedules match."

"I think so," Rukia agrees, looking ahead, and vaguely remembering the email sent the other day.

They are nearing graduation, after all, and they have different courses, after all.

"You'll be fine with that? I mean...I won't be accompanying you on the way back most of the time. You'll be alright?"

It's not so much of a rare thing - not as rare as his, but Rukia smiles up at him, it's one that reassures, "of course, what do you take me for?" Her purple eyes are bright, glistening against the night.

"Right," Ichigo nods, he only needs to hear that.

There is less than 2 minutes now, and Ichigo is remembering how anticipatory this morning has been. He looks ahead, everything is very still, like holding its breath for something. Rukia must be feeling the same.

"I suppose I'll go ahead," Ichigo starts suddenly, feeling something in him braves a little.

It startles Rukia, "what?" she has both of her eyebrows raised at him in question.

"New Year greetings," he tells her, playfully smug, as if he is talking to a kindergarten, "it's only polite."

Suddenly, Rukia laughs at that, still dainty, and clutching her soda, "what? you and politeness don't seem to agree in the same sentence."

But instead of retaliating with something witty and scathing, Ichigo just laughs, too, now he is laughing but more natural this time. The tension in his shoulders is long gone, he is more relaxed than ever, "I suppose," he concedes after a moment - which is probably a first.

"You supposed correctly," she says, eye glinting with something of mischief.

Rukia thinks then, if his grins are uncommon and his smile is an even rarer thing, then his laugh feels like learning a secret too exclusive and personal - but the kind willingly shared.

"Rukia-"

But they are interrupted by a loud _boom _far ahead and Ichigo never got to say his greeting first, because it's this way that New Year arrives for them: on the rooftop, while sitting unevenly on a bench and table, connected by an earphone cord, freshly-off _kohaku_, drinking officially-expired soda drinks, and simply talking.

Karakura tower lights up, the fireworks display happens in succession and _booms _and explodes in colors. Ichigo and Rukia watch quietly.

This should be meaningful, Rukia remembers, seeing the colors burn and collapse. New Year is a good concept, however bland its reality may be with its simple change of number and how the day and night cycle remains practically unchanged, _still_, New Year is a good concept, new and hopeful and suggestive of possibilities. There are some things about metaphorical endings and beginnings, too - surely, it deserves all this fuss.

Rukia looks over at Ichigo - who never looked quite as peaceful as and as handsome as before, remembers his openness and is glad about it. Rukia doesn't quite know his entire story, but she is content anyway, she is not in a hurry.

Rukia withdraws her gaze, and knows a memory is forming.

There is a lot more to happen, there are many days ahead. Rukia looks forward to those: on some days, they'll share a pot of coffee and have breakfast together again, on some days, they'll laugh without snarky remarks, on some days, they'll sweep autumn leaves instead of snow on his backyard. _Every day_, she'll learn something new about him - because life unfolds that way.

(and on some days, too, with a degree of certainty, Rukia promises to tell him hers - she owes him that)

The last of the firework spectacle is fired, and it explodes white and purple on the sky, expansive and too bright - it's really New Year now.

Within the inner pocket of her trench coat is an stationery bound in envelope, Rukia checks to see if it is still there - and knows it is there: square corners and the size of her palm.

Rukia wonders then - as the last of the color disappears - if happiness begins with the _decision _to be happy. If so, then it is safe to say…

Shortly after the fireworks subside, when there is this stillness only known between heartbeats and in between breathes, and the city regains its quiet calm, Ichigo leans back t0 stretch his arms, and speaks to her timidly it's almost a whisper, "Rukia…?" he calls, and she looks his way, wondering about his tone.

"Your shitty heavy metal rabbit band won," he drawls.

Rukia looks at him oddly at first, then there is this choking sound, sudden and fractionally undignified, "what…?" comes a meek sound from her. Horrified, she continues weakly, "What? What? I missed it?"

She stands up and opens her phone, sees the blank streaming video box, "oh no, how could I miss it?"

Ichigo grimaces at her, "what, didn't you hear? What kind of a devoted fan are you?" He takes off his earphone piece still connected to her phone.

He stands, too, leaping lightly from the bench, and tells her - not bothering to hide his characteristic schadenfreude, "don't be upset, your White Team won _Kohaku_, that shit band shifted the tide."

Rukia, for the first time, openly _glares _up at him, whereas he stands a head taller and so boyish and so well-built - _smirks _down at her.

He offers her the earphone cord.

Rukia takes it and fumes while rolling the cord onto her phone. Ichigo stands close to her.

It is around this moment when the night has calmed, and cold wind blows in, and the lamps glow, and he could hear distant sounds of bell that he wishes her a happy new year - albeit quietly and dangerously inaudible and nearly indistinguishable but entirely sincere.

It lingers.

"Can you...just say that again?" Rukia says, sobering up and stopping mid-roll and looking up at him - her annoyance melting into something too large for her heart right now - the little organ is only exclusive and limited and it's restricted to a single function, it could not - how could it possibly? - house something as warm and as grand as-

Ichigo rolls his eyes, leans sideways, and brings his hand to run through his hair again, "no."

Rukia breathes a little at that, it's classic, bashful Ichigo.

She pockets her phone and folds her arms, "why not?" she demands, friendly, a hint of smile skirting her lips, "is that your New Year greeting? It's awfully generic, Ichigo, I'm sure you can do better than that."

(_no_, she thinks inwardly, _it is enough_)

Ichigo only slants her a very dry glare, but stays there - does not make a move to walk somewhere.

"I…" Rukia starts this time, feeling her heart draws a bit of courage, "I...mean, I have something for you, too, but it's not a gift though."

Ichigo perks up and looks at Rukia, and snorts loudly, "I hope you didn't get me a New Year's card with some embarrassing greetings on it."

Rukia frowns, feels but she takes out a white envelope from her coat anyway- it is that exactly.

However, she makes no move to offer him. She is suddenly hesitant, "I did think of something else, you know, but _nengajo _\- this kind of card - is more suitable and I really didn't have much time and stores are all closed…"

Ichigo is very still, his eyes are clear amber and contemplative and he thinks of her. Then, he sighs, "give me." Ichigo holds out his hand.

.

.

.

.

.

.

It is a simple white card, really, it is pretty much blank, save for a small, charcoal line image of crescent moon at the center.

Inside, on the left hand face, Rukia wrote first an apology as well as she could - some sort of an apologetic prelude:

_I shall humbly employ the simplicity of words because truly, I do not have the skills of the illustrious poets and wondrous writers you so indulge yourself to. Do forgive my pitiful attempt at crafting a simple message inscripted on a holiday card. You must know, it is not of my skills. My technique lacked such polished and dedicated practice and devoid of aesthetics. Regrettably, I am left with no other viable options but to depend on your patience as you read through this simplistic card because, allow me to emphasize once more, I do not possess the ability to weave words as grandly and as bombastically to warrant your approval and be worthy of your praise. Though my command of the language is revolting - nothing short of atrocious, deplorable even, and that my vocabulary is grossly limited and oftentimes restrictive, be assured that I am writing most sincerely._

Ichigo's eyes twitch. What the fuck. Rukia is being intentionally infuriating, that must be it.

Glancing aside, there's a piece of an attached post-it note in pale yellow:_ PS: sorry, you like classics, so I thought...If your eyes hurt after reading this I have soothing eye drops, just ask._

And in another pale blue post-it note beneath, she writes: _PS, PS: But I figured you won't ask, so I left one on the table, I put ice around it so it will keep cold. Two drops will do, and don't forget to rest after - that's a pro-tip. Otherwise, deal with it._

"What the?" Ichigo mouths, resticking the post-it notes, and wondering about Rukia's undiscovered sides.

On the opposite face of the card where the crescent moon is drawn again, she writes a shorter message - he could see the outline.

In here, Rukia wrote to him more simply:

_I want to return all your kindness, if you'll let me._

_Ichigo, I'm grateful for having met you._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

Putting down the card, Ichigo still does not quite know what to make of Rukia, it's hard to define - is it even possible to define such person? But he remembers why he let her in: he wanted to be somebody's first first friend.

They are still on the rooftop, the wind comes colder now and he adjusts his fur-edged coat, the light snow has returned - but still too light to prompt them to leave, and by this time - with some 20 minutes after New Year - the surroundings subside in silence - letting the first hour of the year pass by inexplicably _full _and silent.

Ichigo is properly sitting on the bench now. He locates her by the railings, looking idly over, and her red coat lightly swaying with the wind.

"Rukia."

She looks his way, a graceful turn of her head - _too pretty_ \- and has one eyebrow raised in inquiry, a lone bang rests between her eyes, then there's a rough "what?"

Ichigo snorts at that, "_what_" she said - like she's picking a fight, before, it would have been a polite "_yes_?"

Ichigo takes a breath, and gathers some semblance of courage and comes over to stand beside her, it's a good new year, "would you like to do _hatsumode_?"

_._

_._

.

A few hours after when his clock says 3 am, Ichigo still hasn't retired to bed.

Ichigo opens his study drawer. There is now an empty square space where his decade-kept newspaper clippings previously had been.

Ichigo doesn't bother himself much with symbolism, but there is something about seeing the now empty drawer and knowing the gravity of what it previously kept.

Of course he keeps his family to his heart, and now, _now _there is one other person who isn't a relative who knows about them, and - he thinks about this very carefully - it isn't so bad,

Ichigo takes out Rukia's New Year card from his jacket pocket, smoothing the corners for folds and creases, then he lowers the card into the drawer. He'll keep it safe here.

(he could live with that. _It's not so bad_, it's a good exchange).

.

.

.

Ichigo and Rukia are going for hatsumode later, at 8 am – if they are awake, or around lunch - if they want to, or even at 1 pm or 3 pm – whichever, he doesn't mind whatever time they do. But they are going for _hatsumode _together, the first shrine visit of the year, later.

_._

_._

_._

(now laying on his bed, before closing his eyes, Ichigo briefly remembers something about this morning: _something about a feeling he can't quite repress, can't quite shake off, and it won't quite let go:_

_today…)_


End file.
